86 Proof

 My husband rolls over

onto his other hip.

His leaden arm

felling like a cut tree,

his hot deep breath

stews with Tequila

She holds her breath

trying to remain quiet

staring at the ceiling fan,

the young bartender

in our bed,

instead of sleeping by 

her young son, sacrifices

the old proud man, brutish

seems safe enough

strangely his snore

bothers her less

than the cat growling 

at her naked blistered feet

exposed.

I lie awake dreamless,

the window open, crickets, an owl,

trees readjusting their leaves,

Whispering

I am unsettled 

knowing how easily

he sleeps,

how easily his breath, 

comes and goes.

A moth trapped inside the porch light cover,

slams the sides

meets a natural death, resisting

remembering

how the attraction made him feel alive

instead of finite, fraudulent, 

inebriated, flammable

blame and denial 

she agreed with him

always.

I turn over 

thinking, warning

Be careful of open flames. 

Prince of charms

I see him clearly behind the wall
furtively tending to the ritual
of opening wounds
while he wields his favorite knife
which resembles a bottle of Tequila
and he stabs himself
repeatedly
with audible barbs-
the kind that go in and you cannot
pull them out
you must pull them through.

And when I forced a look at him,
I saw the glimmering round shield,
blood spattered red cheeks,
his brow beaded with sweat from lifting
the load so long, carrying it wrong,
he ached, he moved in pain.

And the artillery unleashed
with words flying like arrows
and feelings popping like brittle
burning wood while smoke
circled his buried head
and instead of his precious blade,
he pulled out a small smile-
sweetly
in his shining armor,
while looking away from the glare
he managed to mumble-
you know I love you. 

I was never sure
who he was aiming at.



Image credited by UVM Libraries Digital Initiative 'Sword_sharpener_practicing_his_trade', published asa postcard c. 1909 in Public Domain.