Skeltonic (Tumbling) Verse

Was having a fine time,
didn’t need that extra dime
that moms gave just in case
we needed to make escapes
to have a stab 
at call-a-cab
before a bad date
became a sad fate. 

Went next to dip fondue.
Cheese, bread and skew-
ers red from strawberry dew.
We laughed and drank – 
British gruyere stank –
bubbling chocolate, ranked
yummiest on marshmallows.
Winy sips became swallows.
You all know what follows. 
But no. At my door, he left
after one kiss. It was deft,
leaving me tipsy, bereft
of sexy play in the hall,
spark me up—then stall.
Broadcast that respect’s 
what I could expect. 

Date number three
would be it, I could see.
I called, invited him in,
planning post-prandial sin.
Lined my eyes, burnished my skin,
dressed like a million. 
Man’s mythic heart-path 
I prepared for after my bath,
following recipes, doing the math.

He rang the bell twice,
and said I smelled nice.
It’s just dinner’s spice.
Carrots Morocco, Trout Almondine, 
with roasted beets from a picture I’d seen. 
I took his offer, untied the twine: 
Fannie May truffles, a bottle of wine.
These gifts were no slouch. 
I walked him to the couch.
Amaretto was popular those years.
I poured generously. We toasted, Cheers!
I poured again and sat quite close,
tickled his shin with painted toes.
Poured one more as he seemed
to quiver. I made eyes, lips beamed,
ran my thumb up his inseam.

He barely set down his glass, 
when I poured again. The last,
I said. (Sobriety’d passed.) 
He swiveled an arm, a knee,
shimmied forward to pin me.
You all know how this goes.
But no. 
I tugged my blouse, buttoned it closed,
jumped to my feet 
said, Dinner’s ready, let’s eat!
Neck red as steamed beets,
he strove to switch gears,
with bulging pants and nearing tears.
I’ll give him this, he stood up straight;
had no choice, his fun must wait.

Merlot has a tannic finish,
so every glass I’d replenish,
went with the slightly bitter fish.
His face, I saw, was flushed
raw, but I didn’t want dinner rushed.

Poured a glass and served him more, 
walked him to the bathroom door,
Then sat outside, on the hallway floor.
I heard him groan, though he couldn’t talk. 
Theater, I said, Can get life so right.
Like now, with your skin turning white.

Hunh, he grunted, but he might
have asked me what I meant.
But I stuck to my theater rant. 
First, though, I pretended to care, 
Said, Are you okay in there?
Ceramic clunk said he hit the floor,
so I cooed at him, You poor, poor, poor…
 
I remember a play, when I was young,
of two old women having fun. 
They’d welcome chaps to eat their fare,
who’d die, and then were buried there. 
Playwright’s name I cannot place,
But the play? Arsenic and Old Lace.

What’s that? 
He was mumbling,
wanted to stand but kept stumbling.
I think I heard him ask Why,
Or was it How’d you know I had to die?
You think you could be that guy,
I asked, and I would turn a blind eye?
Three women from that same park
where I met you, found raped after dark,
in their homes, beaten and laid-out stark.

Normally, I am not a man-hater. 
I made an exception for you.
After reading the news, 
from every view,
I mapped out your M.O.,
promised their moms, dads and bros
that before long, you’d go.

I waited where you found the others
(I knew by then you’d take it slow). 
You all know where this will go.
But no. 
You think I fed that felon arsenic
hidden in my almond aspic!
I have no interest in my cell-door’s click!

I fed him pedestrian ipecac,
until he felt so very sick
that he, with his rapacious prick, 
hoped that the end would come quick. 

I hear across gossipy fence rails:
you’re living it down and hard in jail,
that you’re the he-whore to all at Fishkill.
Enjoy sucking their swill.
May each new rape let you learn
all the fear that makes you squirm,
for all your four consecutive terms,
daily drags until at last you feed the worms.

---

Rhonda Rosenheck’s poetry is inspired by ancient texts, nature, and human complexities. She won a NYSCA grant for Thriving: An Anthology (ed., 2024) and authored The Five Books of Limericks, Looking, and Yiddische Yoga: OYsanas for Every Generation (humor). Her poems have appeared in magazines, journals and anthologies; one was performed at Cooperstown, NY’s Glimmerglobe Theater. Rhonda was a featured poet in Judith Magazine. She has been featured at readings in MA and in Upstate NY. She participated in the Colrain Manuscript Conference and in juried residencies at the Fish Factory Arts Centre (Iceland) and Prospect Street Writers House (Vermont).