do you know that old Pink Bismuth™ commercial,
Bambi-eyed wife with the heatless curlers
and the shrew voice that sat in her nose?
the one who called her husband darling and dear and mon petit chou?
the one in the teaberry bathrobe?
do you remember her?
all dolled up she used to serve her industrious husband
wobbling monuments of perfection salad,
cabbage and baby carrots in lime stasis.
after the dyspepsia set in she would
tout fast-acting soothing coating action,
and, well, to tell you the truth,
i feel like that woman every now and again
because i think i exist only to nauseate men.
it is nighttime outside of our mint-colored curtains.
a set dresser put up the moon this morning.
mon petit chou is roosted on the edge of the mattress
in a white undershirt that cuts into his white, muscleless arms,
and those polka-dotted boxers from the cartoons that show
when a tiger tears into the seat of a man’s pants.
i flounce out of the porcelain seafoam bathroom
to rest on my bare knees, massage his back and shoulders,
connect palms to hunched blades. no fingertips.
darling, it’s our anniversary,
why so glum?
he clutches his stomach, molds his temples,
and tells me it’s my cooking again.
again? even today?
lately my fingertips Midas everything into Jell-O salad.
lasagna bounces back if you hit it with a spoon.
seafood mousses into a jiggly membrane.
i can’t even keep water from solidifying in the cup.
we have had to eat through peas in aspic to turn on the bedside lamp.
if you aren’t careful, i’ll turn your blood solid,
turn it into raspberry gelatin,
and my poor, poor mon cher,
i was trying to fix the rabbit ears. my fingers grazed them,
now we watch Flipper through an orange-flavored filter.
we’ve hardly made a spoon dent,
and i think i exist only to nauseate men.
though it is an ad
i am unmarketable.
the sound stage is soundless. a wig-wag flashes outside.
a booming announcer reads a cue card:
how can such a pretty wife
make such lousy dinner?
and when mon beau turns to the camera
to bobblehead sickly at my expense,
i want to scream.
nobody believes me.
i want to bash my head through the false wall,
shriek at the dolly grip just to be heard,
confess to the best boy i can’t help what happens to me,
tell the director i will show him,
i will harden his coffee into pudding.
but i don’t.
off-screen hands place Pink Bismuth™ into my open palm,
and i read my lines:
ladies, if you get adventurous in the kitchen
like me,
there is a solution.
introducing Pink Bismuth™
for occasional digestive upset.
we cannot say diarrhea on television yet.
i am supposed to touch the chest of mon prince charmant,
but i can’t.
i will jelly his heart, pectin his tendons, condense his milk.
instead i use both my palms to toddler-pour shell-pink
into the cap thimble like mother hen
as i turn to ask the camera if i only exist to nauseate men.
i’m sorry i cannot be the girl in the sanitary napkin commercial.
i am not fresh.
i do not bleed antifreeze.
i do not mount bikes or spin in sundresses.
i’m sorry i cannot be the wife in the Cocoa Crinkles commercial.
i will never have a litter to yank at my skirt.
they will never make white milk brown.
i’m sorry i cannot be the woman in the lye soap commercial
who soaps mounds with the shower curtain open,
rub-a-dub mermaid seashell breast bubbles,
and so i will be the woman in the Pink Bismuth™ commercial.
the director will say cut
and when the medicine forms a Jello-O shot the color of strawberry milk,
i will know then
that i only exist to nauseate men.
The Tributary 