She had hair the color of Rye Whiskey and her eyes were moody rivers
fortified by storms. He was a gazelle in a clown suit with a tempest on his knee.
He bounded in, she rose up and together with all their baggage
they made three. Somehow somewhere sometime his love
became a mallet but she never learned to lay very still. She would poke
at him with splinters from the bottom of the bowl, and he would drink
her up, he would vomit her out, but he could never swallow her whole. The beatings
weren’t the main bother, it was the distance between
her and reality that cut the wires and gave her the scars. The sense that she
was both the island and the vortex, the focus of the pupil in
the iris of his scorn.
When she died he went to her funeral. Did he know
had helped bend the coffin lid?