The Bridge Club Coup

The Bridge Club Coup

Every Tuesday at two o'clock

they lay their cards face up—

not hearts and spades but pay stubs

with the amounts blacked out,

divorce papers folded neatly

behind the score pad,

a tube of lipstick rolling

like a fallen revolutionary

across the felt table.

The youngest wears pearls

that could choke a man twice over.

The eldest keeps knitting

what might be a scarf

or a noose

depending on the light.

They deal in silence.

They play to win.

When the pastor's wife

slams down her king of diamonds,

the air tastes like gunpowder

and peppermint tea.

By the third rubber,

every trick taken

is a daughter taught to say no,

every shuffle

a will rewritten in invisible ink.

The final hand falls at four-thirty.

The scorekeeper writes:

Not guilty.

Not sorry.

Never again.

Outside, the church bells ring.

Inside, twelve gloved hands

begin dealing the next round.