Her portrait hung in the hall, full of strange symbols:
an owl, a spear, a ribbon loose at her feet.
The cook raised her eyebrow.

Our ears pricked at wheels coming up the drive
even if we scoffed at the boss’s lists and biddings
I ran out to the garden breathless to cut mint for her juleps.

Lodgers came lantern-jawed or dressed in silks.
Thick-fingered and silver-haired. Under the lamp at the front gate
wool coats specked with snow—romantic.

One guest left the sheets covered in blood, no explanation, no visible injury.
One brought a meanness of spirit to the whole house.
One bred sensuality in every innocent encounter—a nervous interaction in the kitchen
     that taught me something shapeless about the ends of desire.

There was one who came every weekend with a different woman.
Behind closed doors, the innkeeper’s wife hissed
Where does he get them all?

The bartendress created a cocktail in his honor: a Floozy.
We drank it on velvet couches after everyone had gone to bed.
Unflinching, we put it on the menu. No one thinks it’s about them.

I understand the things you want me to tell you:

What a bride, champagne-drunk, revealed to us about her groom on the wedding night.
What a couple left behind in room six and never called to claim.
What we all agreed to throw in the fireplace before the policeman showed up.

The details of her sour divorce and the sale were gossip only to others.
What bites me now is how on some Saturday nights she changed
into a ballgown in the bathroom and came out to sing for everyone.

In the middle of the dining room, no one
listening, she sang like she didn’t own the place.