Back Door

By SUSAN COMNINOS

 

or, sonnet of cheating with a friend’s man

Something about the hinge 
of your hips, the way you held them straight

when you danced. You pushed my palm to fringe:
the pelt of your belly, then sought the gate 

you’d take into my body. Slick 
as a wet floor that ruins 

suede shoes—the sand tick 
that hangs on from sea dunes 

and back—you imagined a door 
tucked between two wounds, then pushed 

there. “Choose,” I said, before 
you slid backwards to try ruched 

skin. “Not that,” I said, meaning that I knew 
that I loved nothing—neither her, nor you.

 

Susan Comninos‘s poetry has appeared previously in the Harvard Review Online, Rattle, The Common, Prairie Schooner, and North American Review, among other publications. Last year, it was shortlisted for both the Marystina Santiestevan First Book Prize and the Cider Press Review Book Award. She lives and teaches writing in Albany, New York.

 [Purchase Issue 21 here.] 

Back Door

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