Ed looks at the photo and says,

your wife is gorgeous

as if she were a snazzy Rolex

picked up for next to nothing

on the Net.

You should see her in the morning,

I reply,

with traces of Kubuki cream

still clinging to her face.

 

All my life, Ed, I steer clear of

Jewish princesses

only to marry a Latin one.

Like a conquering army

her clothes and cosmetics

have occupied

every corner of my house.

If she’s not busy cutting,

curling, coloring her hair,

she’s polishing her nails.

The  bedroom reeks of acetone

and you could finish War and Peace

just waiting for the bathroom.

At times I think she’s died in there.

 

Beauty doesn’t run in the Tablada family.

It gallops.

Did I tell you about her royal blood?

Her great great great great

who was quite a looker too

seduced an Injun prince

and converted him to

The One True Faith.

In return his Injun pals

carved a happy face under his chin,

leaving his bride

a grieving widow

with a mestizo in the oven.

 

Next time (if there is one)

I intend to wed

a sensible Norwegian

plain- faced

but punctual to a T.

When we saunter about town,

the barmaids will whisper

“Inge’s husband is soooo hot.”

 

Still, I won’t deny

I love her raging beauty.

Pour me another double, Ed,

let’s drink to it.

Then I’ve got to go home

to see if she’s ready yet.

 

(originally published in From the Depths)