Overheard in the Shop Rite Parking Lot

by Annmarie Lockhart

We laughed when I bit you,
remember? Joking about
taking that to your Puerto
Rican girlfriend in the Bronx.
I said no bitch is stupid
enough to mess with
you once she sees the
marks I put there.
Do you remember?

She was sitting in her car,
windows half-closed, the pitch
of her voice carried across two
empty spots and the street
light shone on her flayed heart
pulsing in sync with her sobs.

I didn't know she was real.
I was teasing, didn't believe
you could do that to me.
And you have the balls
to tell me it wasn't even
some cute girl in the Bronx
but some horsey side of beef
way up in some New England
bullshit? Are you fucking for real?

I could not hear the sorry words
of her errant man on the other side
of the shaking phone. She gagged,
covered her mouth. I saw red
nail polish chipped and glittered,
blue eyes drowning. I tried to look
away, to listen to Jingle Bell Rock
on the radio, but her wrecked
voice could have been my own,
her wild hands clawing through
the ice and hurt to rescue
my own bruised heart.