Texas, or Maybe Idaho

Cinthia Ritchie

He says he doesn't want
to talk, what's the point,
the way I drag and pull,
but what he really means
is that he wants me to shut up
and quit ragging because he's tired,
sweet jesus christ,
of the way I nag and pick
and do I have any idea
of how I'm sucking him dry?

Suck, muck, luck.
No luck with this one,
a shame because he was
good, sister, if you know
what I mean, holding it out long
and slow until a woman could
die from having it that way.
But then he expected me to be grateful,
like he was doing me a favor,
extra credit in school, listing the capitals
when all you were supposed to do
was name the states.

Arkansas, New Jersey, Montana,
who can remember them all?
This empty space in my bed
feels like Idaho, or maybe
Iowa: corn fields, flat sky,
women in calico print dresses
they sewed themselves.
Is that what you want,
I scream, but of course
he's already gone and I'm left
with my Texas, my Oklahoma
slump: hot and parched,
no rain for months.
Jesus sweet christ,
I could sure use
another man to drink.

---

Cinthia Ritchie lives in Alaska with her son, hyper dog and two stubborn cats. She is struggling with her thesis and hopes to finish up her M.F.A. this December. Her fiction, poetry and nonfiction publications include Conspire, Dare Magazine, Inklings, Mind Caviar, Wheelwatcher Companion II, Explorations, Clean Sheets, Inside Passages, Ice Floe: International Poetry of the Far North, Girlphoria, Horse Thief's Journal, Retrozine and Sho, with upcoming work in Scarlet Letters and Moist. She's also had two short plays produced.