=As the Pig Says=

The bathroom was getting steamy and my face was disappearing

                     when I realized that I walked into

our marriage like the theater.

                                                    I took a seat.

I snapped the ticket stub inside my purse

already thinking “souvenir.”

                                                     I knew you really

didn’t love me. It was like I’d seen the reviews

beforehand, like I’d read the novel.

                                                     I knew the action

was staged, the deathbed scene a performance
worthy of an Oscar

but my tears were 100% real! What strange alchemy!

               I just wanted to be entertained.

               I just wanted to feel something.

               How else can I explain it?

                                       I fooled myself and let myself

forget I was making a fool of myself. I suspended my

disbelief, that’s what they say we should do
if we expect to enjoy the show.

That’s what the ticket stub was for.

So I could reclaim it when the final credits rolled.

                                    I don’t hold you responsible

any more than the actor who played the killer

on the screen. Only a lunatic would.  Still, I’ll admit

I nearly jumped out of my skin

when that green hand reached up and grabbed her ankle.

I was so mad when you laughed at me, my heart

was racing a mile-a-minute, just like the critics

said it would. “It’s not funny!” I was indignant.

You put your hand over your mouth,

a gesture of good will, I guess, but

you were still laughing through your fingers. We didn’t have sex for a week. There hasn't been a straight line
of dialogue between us since. 
You were right, though, I realize now, 
palming a circle in the glass to see my face

before it disappears again. I can laugh about it now

                                                      & that’s all that counts.

As the pig says,
“That’s all folks!”