LORI D. ROADHOUSE
Female gorilla holds aloft the knife
accidentally dropped into her enclosure.
Eyes him warily. She knows what he wants.
“Get the fuck away from me, Silverback!”
“Hey, hey we’re the monkeys, we just monkey around!”
She glares at him, bares her teeth. Hisses, even.
She’s tired of this cage, tired of the judgemental,
gawping gawkers filing by. Wants out.
This was for better or worse, but not for this.
Not for a lifetime of hell-in-a-cage.
She drops the knife with a clatter, panting and
sweating, head down, clings to the bars. She’s rattled,
weary of making waves, weary from making babies.
She knows his shtick. She heard it through the
grapevine he’s been swinging on in his spare time.
He and that new gal from Boston. Yes, she
heard about their funky monkeying around
and no, she’s not going bananas.
She needs out. Out. Damn spot she’s in.
“An increasing number of marital deaths are
a symptom of underlying marital woes.”
She read that in the paper this morning, during
her last hormone-induced personal sauna.
The knife incident wasn’t truly an accident in
this series of unfortunate events. Tell that to
Lemony Snicket. It’d knock his balls out of the wicket.
A ticket wicket. “Buy me a ticket on the last train
anywhere but home tonight.”
She picks up the knife from the kitchen sink,
where it had fallen with a clatter.
Hot flash over, she resumes, resigned,
peeling the potatoes for his dinner.