The Final Episode

The 18th century bawd who sells her daughter’s virginity

to an Earl. The tired CIA operative who says, “just do it,”

then half a village dies. The plantation owner’s wife.

The lonely CEO of the pharmaceutical company

who screams like a banshee when an employee’s baby

pukes milk on her pantsuit. The detective who clicks

her Zippo underneath the incriminating photo of her boss.

The “complex” one who lets her servant girl be whipped.

Who dumps the radioactive material in the reservoir.

Who is given a chance to apologize to a crying friend

and instead pauses and says, “fuck off.” Who is unable

to report her violent husband before he murders someone.

Unable to stop the drone pilot from pressing the button.

Scared of losing her promotion. Covers her ears. Utters

lines like “I believe you are mistaken, my dear” and

“This is above your pay-grade, kid, keep your nose out.”

Who says, “Fine! Fucking fine!” when the partner who

loves her but can’t live like this anymore says, “I love you

but I can’t live like this anymore.” Who thinks the truth

would spoil everything. Who burns the crucial letter.

Whose cleavage is angry and heaving. Who drinks

miniature vodkas in the hotel bath and nearly drowns.

Who wears her new husband’s dead ex-wife’s earrings

to the christening. Who can’t forgive her stepson

for existing. Who lets the suicide call go to voicemail.

Who walks to the AA meeting, is met at the church gate

by the greeter who says, “welcome” to which she replies,

“fuck you, creep” and keeps on walking. Who is sick

in the sink. Who suddenly feels the weight of her actions.

Who hyperventilates into a paper bag. Who splashes water

on her face in a public bathroom, glares at the mirror

and says, “Wise up.” Who knows her narrative arc is peaking,

knows there’s goodness in her somewhere, the viewers

have glimpsed it in close-ups and now they’re halfway

through the final episode and she’s got twenty-two minutes

to wrangle a denouement, fall on her dagger, hand over

the list, clear her spiritual debt in a single payment. Look

at her standing on your porch-step, holding out her heart

like an injured bird and begging you to ruin her.