Ragged Edges
After the first rape,
I bled.
After the second,
I slept.
Both were forms of healing.
Rip into me,
steal my center,
it was falling apart
before you arrived.
Sometimes my tears
come fiercely,
a form of punishment.
Sometimes they pace
themselves at a slow leak
and I listen to the drip
as I empty.
Behind the green
eyes my father gave me, the
lips of my mother, my
grandmother's breasts, I
can feel something slowly
carving its way from
inside to out.
I will give birth to this,
hold it in my hands as
an offering.
This, too,
is a form of healing.
Post Addiction
The sun set
hours ago. There is no use
fooling ourselves it's
still light outside.
There's nothing but the glow
of our cigarettes up here
alongside this fountain. No
one else comes up here.
Our smoke and our attitudes
keep them away.
You are smoking, you are
playful tonight. You run
near the water, you smile,
smoke flies like satin ribbons
through the air.
And I think of how I now know
you do not love me, nothing
will make you love me. I cannot
change myself enough to make
myself attractive to you.
Nothing but us smoking now.
Later, I will still
smell like smoke
but there will be
no fire.
Saturday Night Joyride
Will I feel guilty
if I let you fold
the backseat of your car down flat
and lay me down so my hair
brushes the soda cans stuck
to the carpet and I can see
the stars out the back window
and I let you touch
all the places I need touched and
let you scream, "Oh, Karen," when
it becomes obvious a name
needs to be called?
I should feel guilty
because she knows we are out
with the sunroof down, smoking
Marlboros and unfiltered Luckies,
singing and flicking ashes out
the window and sharing
a large order of McDonald's fries
with extra salt, you driving
while I balance your soda
between my cold knees.
She knows and she is busy
writing a term paper, hitting the
keys of her word processor
until the s key sticks and spits
a line of hissing out onto her paper
like your breath as you lay, spent,
beside me.
I think I am supposed to feel guilty
but being the other woman feels fine
lying here in your backseat
under the week-old full moon.
Anatomy
I offer you my hand.
You snap it off at the wrist,
a fresh green bean,
and hand it back.
I hold it for a moment,
fascinated by the tell-tale heart
line, the callus from
repeated pen-to-finger friction,
the chipped polish that promised
passion on each ragged nail.
When I realize you have left,
I place the hand on the ground,
a Daliesque daisy, a warning,
and follow.
I have no room to carry my baggage
into a relationship as fragile as this.
Email: Amy Durant
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