M.J. IuppaHemmed-In Her name was Margaret, but someone called her Margaux and like a pearl button the name held fast. She was a graceful, willowy woman, who turned heads whenever she made herself seen. Mostly though, she kept to herself in the Spanish mansion built on a hill surrounded by woods. There, she kept her collections: dolls, toys, stamps under wraps. She loved to wear her silk kimono dressing gowns when she retired to the study that held her prized butterflies— all 14,728 pinned under glass. Only, she and her white angora cat were allowed to sit among her dead husband’s things. Mixed Tapes Listening in the dark to rain rushing down gutters, tapping against winter’s sooty windows; her black eyeliner smudged by the hard swipe of her chapped hands, she looks like a night terror, unable to shake what she hears playing in the house full of clicks and echoes. She’s so under the covers that the sound of his Spanish guitar in the living room plucks her chills. She can barely lift herself off the mattress, or call out to the luminous figure that leans over her. She lifts her arms, wanting to press her forehead against his, until she falls asleep. M.J. Iuppa’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 32 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.previous page     contents     next page
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