At Banshee, Bar

by Hillary Smith-Maddern

Image credit: Ehud Neuhaus on Unsplash

Here is the scene: it’s 9 p.m. and the sun / dips like it’s last call. / I order a Malbec and a plate of

fries / when I notice the girl behind the bar — / her name tag says Amelija — / slam down her

phone. Her lips / pull, and my body remembers / how I’d use that expression to feign sleep, to

escape / my ex-husband’s pungent smell, to avoid / the sound of his voice. / I’m alone, so I say,

You alright? / She checks her phone, / draws her mouth into a grimace-wry-smile-hybrid, / and

asks, What wrong with men? / This is a question / we’ve all downed too much tequila over, /

licking salt from wounds we didn’t deserve. / She pours us two shots of vodka / and gives the

open bottle the empty seat next to me. / The text was from her roommate. / Amelija’s boyfriend

— ex-boyfriend, / she punctuates the correction with a shot / and pours herself another — / had dropped by and ransacked her / closet in pursuit of a sweater he’d bought her last Christmas,

punched / a lampshade, stolen three Allen wrenches, / and dumped their Beta fish, Stalin, down

the toilet. / It crosses my mind / that Stalin (not the fish) was Time Magazine’s Man of the Year

— twice — / but the diversion seems irrelevant, / so I say something I hope sounds supportive

and honest, but not / overly critical. She agrees that he is a fuckwad / and can’t believe she ever wanted to marry him.  

I want to reach across the bar, / cup her chin in my hands, tell her how smart / and beautiful she

is / for leaving / before she’s lost a decade to an ex-husband / who once broke a car window /

because he’d lost his wallet in our apartment / and killed a needy guinea pig / with his bare

hands. / Instead, we down another shot. / Prieka Prosit! / A toast to everything we didn’t see

coming. / She rests her hand on my wrist / and between us, pass the years / of placating tones

we’ve mastered, / the growing hole in the wall we feared / could become our faces. 

This wasn’t the first time / her ex had uprooted her existence. / Not the second either. / In total,

she’d lost a jade plant, / two coffee mugs, / a hand towel that said Corks Are for Quitters, / an

alarm clock, / the salt shaker in a matching set, / a dozen eggs, / a Christmas sweater, / three

Allen wrenches, / and Stalin (the fish). / Other people think she’s stretching the truth, / but I think actually, / she is recounting history. / Someone should be writing this down, / calculating love’s ledger: / the jade plants, / the sweaters, / the shattered pieces. / Someone should be comparing

that / to the silent screams of women.

***

Hillary Smith-Maddern

Hillary Smith-Maddern is an educator whose work explores the intersections of feminism, queerness, and rage. She is a proud cat lady and an avid collector of neglected plants. When not writing, she can be found exploring obscure topics, hiking in the mountains, or passionately critiquing the patriarchy. Her poetry has appeared in Only Poems, Rogue Agent, and The Disappointed Housewife, among others. She lives in Western Massachusetts.