Chichevache

No one could fear me—lean cow, an ugly face.
It's frustrating having a taste for something so rare.
I'm allergic, I like to say, to the common.

In the evening a wife pulls Gladwrap over a plate.
She catches the steam and is delicious
to watch doing the dishes.

Later, there's a wooden clock opposite
where she sits reading a book.
Her eyes never rise from the page.

I can only stomach women blessed with virtue.
Just as I rise on my hind hooves, she folds
the corner of her page, and checks her watch.

Not ruined, just beyond her best.
I plan where to start—nose up the tartan skirt,
tear the pantihose off the buttocks.

Headlights flood the driveway. She stands.
I wish I were closer—the only way to tell if a wife is ripe
is to check the face.

She puts the plated meal in the microwave
and pours a glass of wine. Her manicured nails
canter slightly on the bench.

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I wait and wait for her to falter, to hurl the wine glass
at his head, drop the plate. But she is good and patient,
giving up the best chair, reapplying her lipstick.

He eats and reads the paper. She goes back to her book,
looking up every now and then
to see if he's finished.

My breath fogs the window pane; I listen to her kind words
and salivate—Darling, she says, shall we go to bed?
There's water running in the bathroom, cupboards opening and shutting.

Inside, I follow them upstairs, watch the man fold back the duvet
and climb into bed, watch the wife slowly brush her long hair.
When the lights are switched off, I lose all restraint and rush.