M.J. Iuppa

Her name was Margaret, but someone called her Margaux 
and like a pearl button the name held fast. She was a 
graceful, willowy woman, who turned heads whenever
she made herself seen.  Mostly though, she kept to herself 
in the Spanish mansion built on a hill surrounded by woods.
There, she kept her collections:  dolls, toys, stamps under 
wraps.   She loved to wear her silk kimono dressing 
gowns when she retired to the study that held her prized 
butterflies— all 14,728 pinned under glass. Only, she and 
her white angora cat were allowed to sit among her dead 
husband’s things.

Mixed Tapes
Listening in the dark to rain rushing down gutters, tapping 
against winter’s sooty windows; her black eyeliner smudged 
by the hard swipe of her chapped hands, she looks like a night 
terror, unable to shake what she hears playing in the house 
full of clicks and echoes. She’s so under the covers that the 
sound of his Spanish guitar in the living room plucks her chills. 
She can barely lift herself off the mattress, or call out to the 
luminous figure that leans over her. She lifts her arms, wanting 
to press her forehead against his, until she falls asleep. 

M.J. Iuppa’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 
32 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her 
blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.
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