Trapped

by Ron Lauderbach

My wife wants to know what I think
about when I close my eyes as we
make love. She asks while we’re eating
lunch. I take a bite off a fat deli
pickle and she laughs as I stammer.
Sour juice drips down my chin onto
sardines we bought on our honeymoon
to Portugal last year. I focus on the neon
yellow and red tin with the old–style
key that curls up the lid as you roll
it back. I watch the oil ooze inside
the coiled cover and comment on how
rare it is to find containers like this.
My wife raises an eyebrow to show her
question is unanswered. I imagine silver
sardines bumping green noses against
a nylon net.