CONFESSION ZERO

Her thighs waited for hands to find their way Along the pleasing path. (As she watched him, she thought, "This will make everything alright again." The naked stranger, her husband, moved toward her.) She held her breath, readied her legs, waiting for him. His rough hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her ass To the edge, his unexpected finger plunged inside her, Welcomed by her abandoned inhalation. She watched him intently as he pushed inside. His eyes were closed, legs crashing hard against her As she felt the hotness rising up inside him. His eyes Remained closed. She touched her breasts with one hand And thrust the other down to discover her stiff wetness. He groaned loudly and spilled his fury deep inside of her, Then angrily shoved her legs from off of his shoulders And, without a word, slammed the bathroom door. She thrust both of her hands to her startled eyes, Wincing as the tears flowed over last nights broken skin. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman

Perhaps we’re not who we thought we’d be. Maybe we’re flawed, like weakened trusses, collapsed, memorized by rote, like a baby falling from our arms. All the nattering of 2012 has found a home in us, the end of days written in our heads. Thoughts manifested with a plunging fury. And how many of us recognize the history of marching fanatics and obliteration’s debris? Violence douses itself in our memories, like the smell of our lovers sex and the thud of the baby’s head smacking the ground. Like torturers, proud; water and screams, flag and country, domestic and foreign, while faces puffed in shame allow the tyrant’s fist. The source of our sadness jumps the turnstile unnoticed as fresh bruises in a neighbor’s home. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman