Bluebeard by Dion Farquhar

Raising his wine glass to toast his wife at dinner, one-percenter Bluebeard matter-of-factly observed, “Market’s a code for private, selling off what was once public.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the servant flinch. As he droned on about the centrality of levels of liquidity achieved by derivatives and the positioning of collateralized debt obligation, Bluebeard’s wife soared to the ceiling and perched on a corner of baroque ornamental molding. This castle is hard to heat, she thought, her bare shoulders cold. He went on about SEC-approval raising the analytic ante. She half-listened, thinking, radical will is never enough, necessary but not sufficient. Why had she not seen his vileness, been attracted to his wealth, mesmerized by his power, consenting to marry him? Associations and images flood her head—enclosure of the Commons, the manufacture of fact, excoriation of fiction. From her perch, she relished the glow of the candlelight flickering around the room, knew she still half-believed that knowledge was based on seeing. Flying back to her place at the table on his left, she stabbed a prawn with her fork, meeting his eye as she held it aloft, “I see. So what do you think your next move should be?” He tells her he regrets he has to leave very early the next morning for a meeting. Will she forgive him.

Dion Farquhar has recent poems in Local Nomad, Columbia Poetry Review, Shampoo, moria, Shifter, BlazeVOX, etc. Her second poetry book Wonderful Terrible was published last year by Main Street Rag Publishing Company, and her second chapbook Snap is in press at Crisis Chronicles Press. She works as an exploited adjunct at two universities, teaching mostly composition but still loves the classroom. A New York transplant, she still misses her friends and family back east, off-off Broadway theatre, and live baroque.