It's midnight and the only two people
in the green house are watching
Tarantino films, the blood on the screen
screaming "Get down!"
The house shakes its roof
doubtfully because the couple
should go to sleep instead of arguing
about who's the best director,
and is Tarantino cool or only a wannabe,
and is the dialogue brutal or brilliant,
and does he hate women and why all the torture.
These two haven't been to bed together yet,
thinks the Queen Anne rehab, and the films
are Hollywood sellouts, some with comic thugs,
others with magic swords. The house has seen
scores of kitchen knives that cut scars
into its hardwood floors,
and it prefers soft moans
from non-Tarantino women like this one
who aren't whores
and non-Tarantino men like this one
who aren't macho—
simple oh's and ah's
that give the house a bath,
no matter that you can't erase the past.
And by the time the Tarantino phase declines,
we'll be bickering about the next hip director
who shows us blow by blow
what's wrong with us,
without our ever wanting to know.
Eileen Murphy was born in Chicago and educated at New College, Sarasota (BA), and Columbia College, Chicago (MA). She teaches English and literature at Polk State College (Winter Haven/Lakeland, Florida) and has published poetry in a number of journals including The Kerf, Mudfish, and poetry/memoir/story.