Lexi Pelle

What I Loved About My Mother-In-Law’s Nudes

was the way you held them. 
Who knows how long we stared 
at those six crisp Polaroids 
we found placed in the paperback 
on her bedside table. We were 
supposed to be packing. 
She was gone—she took 
her life. You knew not to 
sneer at her spread legs
or the leopard-print panties
at the bottom of the frame. 
Maybe she liked seeing herself 
like that, mouth open tasting 
some delicious invisible dessert. 
Why is it that pleasure is the only 
happiness you don’t have to be 
happy to enjoy. Finger 
on the shiny film, you touch her
the way you touch the stars 
when you show them to me.

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