Our Story

by Marci Schur

The bottle of wine between us like the semicolon and

we are two independent clauses that are worthy of one another but separate

red wine lying supine on a fluffed white pillow

like a nude model on her river-whore break

shuddering, waiting to be opened


We are a work of art in a downtown gallery for emerging artists

and those on the fringe

a diptych– conceptual black and whites 

smattered in erudite hand-written narratives

perusing the moral implications of sexual tragedies 

lit up images of vintage lace and high-waisted red panties


You are my foil

and minor character


WE-juxtaposed for contrast…


A maundering poetess–

placated by leopard fur and Sontag’s intellectual juice

incessantly contemplating drug literature 

and its addicts/protagonists she prefers to live vicariously through 

because even she craves a womb-induced opioid-calm some days

Her body aches with the heavy analysis of offbeat art

and lusty longings for a Paris moon


A master grower cock-deep in flower 

he licks Los Angeles and takes like a marauder returning to New York City 

pockets sagging gold and smelling like skunk

gypsy tattoos dripping blood and guns and ghosts of a childhood 

his mom fidgeting with her vibrant collection of red wigs 

nailed to her wall in neat order framed by Hebrew scripture

her interpretation represented by sheitels and Shabbos 

a conviction glued on

that women are safer in cages lined in Russian sable 

with a stocked fridge at their Louboutin feet

She serves her purpose spooning sweet cream into his hungry mouth 

until he chokes


We are a great American love story 

choking on gin and blow

When I fall into your arms we both fade off a cliff like magic

the audience is disappointed


never once looking

although I could feel you stiffen 

with the extension of my legs clad in fishnets stretched over your crotch

you’re like every other motha’ with your 

hands on me a mere gesture of distraction

I am filled with the vigor that comes

on the third day post-period


the TV voices become like a bitch in the corner of a high-end bar who talks too much 

about nothing but eases the tension in a room full of people scratching through 

Margiela dresses and Balenciaga hi-tops


my tense curled toes unfurl revealing glitter nails a feminine ballet-point

sliding up your calf and the weight of your arm on my ribs like led

for confirmation

We are doubtless and drifting and warm


Ours, a story with no ending.

Marci Schur’s work has appeared in 13th Floor Magazine and Literarymama.com. She also wrote and co-produced a multi-media production at La Tea Theater in Manhattan and wrote a show staged at The Marsh Theater in San Francisco. She received an MFA in Creative Writing from New School and an MA in English from SFSU. Marci lives in New York with her husband and two children and is currently at work on a novel.