After Slim Aarons

by | Jun 24, 2020 | Poetry

It looks like I’m glancing over my shoulder but my head doesn’t turn. Verbs are for servants, darling, here on the day bed in the garden, by the pool between the fountains, on the empty breakfast terrace. Would you be a doll and something. Silver fruit bowl, hint of movement, a monocle atop a fashion magazine—shadow across the gallery marble but no one in the archway behind me on the divan in one strapless gown and then another, scarlet, suddenly maroon. I’d rather be crouching behind a dumpster with a leaky eyeball in a swarm of flies. Even the moonlight is sunlit.
After Slim Aarons by Ruth Tobias

About The Author


Ruth Tobias is a Denver-based food-and-beverage writer/editor whose work has appeared in numerous print and online publications—from Imbibe and Draft to Zagat and Eater to The Boston Phoenix and The Denver Post to Gastronomica and The Oxford Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in America. She has served as an editor for ZagatSurvey, Sommelier Journal, and the Weekly Dig. Thanks to a background in poetry, she also holds three virtually useless degrees from UCLA, the University of Iowa, and Boston University.