Matt Gilbert
Murder Mystery Party in a Bomb Shelter
Thunder. Lightning. Ominous.
Her voice as dry as the gin in drinks.
Someone is secretly, unknowingly,
a murderer. This is the game, right?
To know what someone means
despite every word they say.
Women dance in the cramped space,
the filtered air smelling of plastics,
their legs wispy as grown wheat
under chilled lights. They are rebirth
after the settlement is gone.
No one wears their wedding rings.
There is a bunkbed and a bookcase
of self-help. Speak as if you’re quoting
the truth. I tell her half the human
race is abandoned outside,
and she rubs her hair. The concrete
collects body heat. My lioness,
your tennis bracelet’s heiress teeth
shine on my shoulder. There’s a bunkbed
and an AM radio. Three courses
of canned corn. Another glossy girl
is immersed in fallout. We’re all
guilty of wanting to be the only one,
but the soulmate isn’t romantic,
just suburban: close enough for touch
only when touch is needed.
