One moment he seemed... Odysseus to the life--
the next, no, he was not the man she knew.
--The Odyssey, Book 23
I'm stateside now, my husband six months gone.
I think of another soldier and his wife--
they built their bedpost from an olive tree,
roots spreading underfoot, gray branches splayed
like fingers, floorboards grassy as a lawn.
The tree grew through the center of their life.
They slept beneath its living canopy.
And once the wide was left alone, its shade
stroked darkened hands across her brow.
I like to imagine that she often thought
of chopping down the trunk, fed up with boughs
which dropped their leaves, black fruit turning to rot.
I can't help asking if, when he came home,
did they lie together there or sleep alone?
- Improv':
I’m metro—urban city—now, my unengaged fiancé three months
single, a year uninterested. I think of another himbo and his “dirty
laundry” (she was to study the home, family), they mortgaged a life
together in a bar: drumming out his drunk, his band, The Brohanski’s,
ripped right into her mesh—insert lightly—padded bra top tank.
The solo room loft, conveniently stacked smack-dab above their
simpleton life… wet bars, bottles of choose-your-poison, tits, and bad
boi band bandanas. They slept naked in sheets of sex and piss stains,
growing in love. And once the thrill of blackout blowjobs and rock
star tour dreams soured in all its stomach bile, the perfect sized home
could fit just one slammer. I like to imagine that she never forgot
where the fun pack stash of condoms stayed, fed up with filing
statistical studies on ‘the bastard kid’, keeping her own manila
folder from tacking on another number. I can’t help wondering
if, when First Response gave a plus pink line, did they cry there
together or her alone?
No comments:
Post a Comment