Adultery For Dummies

First, you confess to the mirror:

I’m having an affair.

A life sprawls upended. I

saw it coming. A terror my hands passed through

wrecks sweet.

The mirror says You slut.


A text, and grateful cellos


through every cell

in the dawn of my body.


Second, you learn to purge.

Methodical and slinky

like a Soviet spy in the corrupted West

expecting a stab in the back. Guilty as charged

instructed by your stepson’s delicate eyes.


Radioactive letters startling your palm.


Third, you act normal.

Amore pasta alla vongole stasera?

You browse the aisles with biscuits and rice

Un po’ di parmigiano per favore

Nobody sees you swallowed

a crusader sword.


Buona serata


The stove says Enough playing with fire.

I can’t. It’s pouring outside.


Lady Judas I dare you kiss

your husband’s oleander face,

an email ticking in the back pocket of your jeans

a bomb set by an apprentice terrorist

ready to blow the skyline of dog barks

and lemon branches,

ovaries throbbing between blossoms,

the neighborhood ruptured  to the quick.


I don’t know why and how we keep living

with this appetite for apocalypse.

What’s the Arabic for

Nobody loves you like I do?



Lourdes Verónica is a Moscow-born translator and teacher currently living in Rome. Her poems were featured in In My Bed Magazine (Canada), the Silver Birch Press I Am Waiting Poetry Series, Lavender Review, Window Cat Press, Winamop, Chantwood Journal, and Fable Online, as well as nominated for 2015 Pushcart Prize. Her poems in Spanish found their home in the Margen Cero Magazine.




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