Disassembly Directions

Lisa Liken

You cook just like my Mother,
he says and you beam like a sweet bell
pepper. He swears his love is forever.

You believe in bleach, in vacuum attachments,
in mopping the floor with your palm
on the sponge. No dishes dare to drip in the rack,
slippers by his bedside, vapor rub in the kink
of his muscular back. He brushes and braids your hair,

wraps it around your neck as a leash
or a comfortable noose. He accuses
you of being loose. Plucks
your pubic hair, one by one
which you fashion into a pin cushion
then spend a meaningful morning
hand sewing.

One day he insists you’ve been fondling
another, snips your hands at the wrist
with the miter cutters and bolts
them to the wall for dishtowel hangers.

You learn to sew with your pedicured
toes. Anything to please your love. I saw you
lusting for him, he says. But whom,
you ask. Such lies, he says
as he pops out your eyes with a crow bar.

Don’t worry,
you tell him. I’ll always remember
how beautiful you are.