TARA IACOBUCCI

Strip Poker

As women, we play 
     often, on our own terms. 
The ante, unlocked jaws. 
 
There will be no dwelling 
     or platitudes, just women 
whose understanding unfolds 
 
like metal chairs. We are late 
     in our thirties, so our cards 
have been dealt. We know 
 
each other’s hands 
     but we still raise
bets with a tailored image
 
of a clean home 
     or a successful diet. 
The sober pros look on, determined 
 
to seek out a black tongue.
     We bluff. But each round
we lose, we peel off layers 
 
of our worst selves; we strip 
     our darkest shame,
hand it over to the dealer 
 
like it’s silk 
     underwear. We toss 
our fears, our self-hatred, 
 
our troubles into the pot, 
     make it reek 
of truth. We know it’s easiest
 
to fold, to tweeze 
     the splinters 
we’ve been dealt 
 
and toss them into the muck
     until our bodies
lean together in the dark.
 
So, we play another round, tired
     of carrying loneliness 
through full houses. 

Tara Iacobucci is an English teacher and poet living in the Boston area who writes often about women, home, and her three children. Her work has most recently appeared in Mother’s Always Write and The Bangalore Review and is forthcoming in New Plains Review and Toho Journal.