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3 Poems

by Liz Teuber

Desperate Housewife

therapist sitting in chair

paid for listening ear

imagine myself on his lap

anticipate affirmative tap


plumber enters stage left

certain his fingers are deft

cue dampness between my thighs

a place my husband finds dry


longing to be seen and heard

at home i get nary a word

desperate for any interaction, other 

than him asking me ‘what’s for dinner?’


I shared a poem with a man I met on Tinder once

he sent me more than a dozen lines of his own work first 

his read like an angsty love story

mine was cheeky

I told him I liked his work—I didn’t

he told me mine read like a recrimination—it was


we never met


by the end of our exchange he thought I was catfishing him—I wasn’t 

he found himself very attractive—I didn’t

he scolded and negged me, so naturally I wanted to chat more

but I’m a pumpkin, not a catfish,

vanishing at the stroke of midnight

never to be heard from again


I had my piano tuned today;

which as I write it, sounds like a euphemism 

but as I know, you know, is not.

You mentioned your wife played.

I wondered if you do as well.

You touched each key with such tender familiarity.


Stand in my living room—

will you ever touch me that way again?

Your hands grazing my soft skin, mirroring the delicacy

of your fingertips fondling the lacquered surface of the piano.

How I wish you would tickle the smooth instrument of my body,

the songs it would sing for you. 

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