Y to X
Can I help it that these fed up fists
lash out at school, at work,
authority? These scraped knuckles you have kissed,
burned with grease, sticky from the soda jerk
fight for more. The marital dream we were promised
birthed nothing but black eyes and postpartum
depression lingering like the last of August
heat, a silent stillness antemortum;
afterwards, I refuse to perjure –
forced removal is not murder
and we have dreams to realize,
a house to build. Baby, we can make another;
pull yourself together, say your goodbyes
and one day I’ll make you a mother
of ten, twenty, children at every door and window,
a nursery like a garden. Every
sad song sends you clutching for your pillow
braced against your empty stomach in reverie
unrealized. I can’t comprehend missing that which never came;
died too young, unformed, to have a gender, name.
Come back to me – I’ll treat you good.
No smokin’, drinkin’, brawling with shadows
on the wall. I’ll be a modern Robin Hood
stealing for need and saving my arrows
for those bastards that got me expelled.
For what? A few words, a threat, a curse –
I don’t even own a handheld
pistol – just grab a band-aid from the nurse.
You too, baby – you need a band-aid and some glue
cause I’ve been too long without fucking you.
X to Y
Can I help it that you’re a lying
swindler, full of sunny graces charming
girls until obligation blooms and you run, hiding
until a prettier face accepts your darlin’
let’s dance? You took the life growing inside
my warmth and threw it to cold cobblestones
like rubbish. The hearts you drag behind
crack, break, topple like dominoes
and I have no need of your lies,
the fist-shaped you’s pummeled against my eyes
and purple lips that match the blue fingerprint bruises
wrapped around my throat like the latest fashion.
I have run out of excuses
for your thuggish charms. Your words were assassins
primed to strike and dug daggers into my belly;
numerous, nameless abuses tangled in my hair.
No more roses, diner dates and cherry
flavored soda – from now on I play solitaire,
a queen of spades among the hearts.
No half-priced whore bought a la carte.
Get off my doorstep and don’t ring again
not my bell, my phone, my finger,
or come knocking at my locker. Abstain
from caressing me with your eyelashes, your gaze lingering
on panorama hips built to bear a weight
denied. Take your grease burned soda sticky
fingers elsewhere, back to work or on a date
with another flippant missy
in heels and short skirts. Don’t protest that it’s undue –
every slammed door is a personal fuck you.