Tom DVORSKE

ESPIONAGE

1.

Painful as it is to admit, I like your shoes.
The soft leather sheen soothes my rough
exterior, eyelids. She said something
like this; I can only imagine
it stemmed from a deep-seated foot
fetish. Beneath the table, her toes
curled round my laces, unfastening me.
In the room tension was thick
like cake. The dinner theatre crowd
poured in, men decked out in lavender
suits, women wore sharkskin jackets.
Her toe slid up my shin, I bristled
like a porcupine, arched my back
and purred. The giant squid stood
center stage, backlit by a cityscape
of tax forms and voter registration
booths; the alphabet soup
had been served. My sweet foot-fetishist
talked, suspiciously, of foreign policy.
It was all so very bleak.

2.

The raindrops fell like hammerhead
sharks. In the envelopes, invitations
requested our presence for all but two
acts. Not wanting to overstay our welcome
we measured through the dark of human
revelation. She said, "It is not in our interest
to remain here." And I thought how lovely
are gardens this time of year-gladiolus
and peonies, blue daze, wisteria, the petals
like armed guards, ushering us into purifying
cavernous thought: the momentum relaxes
in spite of itself. Or, there are no seasons
for the spies. These things pressed upon us,
meaning, they were heavy but unintelligible.
I spoke with words. She spoke with her toes,
wiggling them in the soft grass. I nosed

(no break)
her ear. She tousled my giggle switch.
The memory of it all blocks my nasal
passages. Each horseman drew up flush
with the window. From inside we heard
the Greek chorus sing, what we thought
was not confirmed in this story.

3.

Some weeks it just goes on. We root
in the earth like lover moles, indignant
to our skyscraper dreams. But now
the agents nose their way into our coveted
hole, unresting our dark oasis. The jig
is up. We list our complaints. The committee
defers. The executioner is arraigned.
He toasts the emissary, glad tidings had by all.
It was the focus of our session, the intended
outcome, the planned regret, the imminent
failure to arrive before the scene had been struck
and all the actors' lines slipped down the drain
into the street where children packed small jars
into large crates marked Foreign Aid.

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