You were always a thief

Let’s have two fancy-lady cocktails up on the mahogany. A toast to our last time at The Burning Sword. Everyone in jeans and you dressed for The Stork Club circa 1965, channeling your society aunt. Her rubies at your neck. Her doorknocker ice on your finger. Her chandelier ear bobs flicking your shoulders. A girlish smile for the crowd as if they knew you. Even so. The Windex-blue ring was a shock. 32 carats of aquamarine, big as a matchbook and dusted with diamonds. In a black velvet box you set on the bar. Another souvenir from your aunt’s dressing table. No beauties like these in the mines any more, you said. Meant to be seen not hidden away in a dresser drawer. Cousins be damned, you said. And not for the first time. Your voice like a freedom fighter, not a middle-aged woman with time on her hands. A husband you pamper and pamper and pamper. A sickly daughter you had put away. A dog you dope to stop its barking. So, a toast. To earlier days and plotting our futures. You with sharp elbows and mind pumping. Funny yes, oh my god. Nothing too sacred to skewer, you said. And the world up for grabs. Back then. Before you became a story I tell.

Iris Rosenberg reads and writes poetry and fiction in New York City, where she lives with her family. Her writing career includes stints as a business journalist, agency head, college instructor (communications) and poetry reviewer for Library Journal. She has a BA from Rutgers and an MFA in Painting from Pratt.

A Song for Iris