poMotion poetry

poem #15

with one comment

As the alarm rang, the woman stretched. The man lying next to her looked calm.
Going to the kitchen she rummages through the cupboards as if through his brain.
Raisin Bran, mostly empty box,
He must be very regular, she thinks, pouring some in a bowl taken from the lower shelf
The sink has not been cleaned in some time, she focuses on the spot where the faucet joins to the sink, there is water, dirt, old soap, but that is not what has taken her attention
On the left side under a handle with an “H” on it, is a fingernail. A painted fingernail.
Red, like blood but deeper
Whore red, she thinks
she looks at her own fingernails

after washing her dish, drying it, placing it delicately back on the shelf where she found it
she starts to cry, then stops
Not here, not now, she thinks
Be Strong.  Roar.
No man defines me, she reassures herself

returning to the bedroom she sees red
that whore was here, in this room, maybe ate out of the same bowl as me, special K, half an orange
yogurt
soy milk

somewhere a dog whines, a window is broken, trash is taken to the street
people move, unaware of the fingernail
unaware of the bedroom or the hidden porn stash in the third draw from the bottom
unaware, asleep
just like him

he is unaware that i am aware, she thinks,
she remembers last night, the wine, the game of cribbage that somehow unexpectedly turned into sex
she thinks about the number 15
7 and 8
5 and 5 and 5
8 points, good score for three cards
she looks at his hand hanging gently, calmly, peacefully off the end of the bed
the pool of blood now soaking into the carpet next to the spilled wine
a jack of clubs is somehow stuck to his back
nobs, she remembers, is only worth one point in your hand but two if it is cut

she dresses, leaves, locks the door behind her
the hallway is an odd shade of green, fading, peeling, untouched
outside it is spring, squirrels rummage in the trees
their bushy tails are like paint brushes painting leaves on this once dead looking oak tree the size of a house

she gets in her car
she puts the key in the ignition and eyes her broken fingernail, turns the key looks at his bedroom window
two points, she thinks as she pulls out into the fog that hangs over the city

by Brian Feist

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Written by lickmypoetry

April 5, 2010 at 9:50 pm

Posted in poem

Tagged with ,

One Response

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  1. Go.

    Astrid

    April 5, 2010 at 11:51 pm


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