Beauty Mark

 

You see,

I was the passenger,

I once taught him-a gentleman

always lets his lady in

first-

Anyway, 

he must do this 

still.

I wonder 

when I knew

I wonder if

I was blinded

by a reflection

or the sun.

His profile

blocked

my view 

of the ocean at sunset

this warm evening

after treating me

to join him at one of the

places

He drinks and dines

regularly.

His shades on, left elbow propped outside 

his Jeep window,

a lit cigarette in hand 

and typical

scowl on his face. 

I was the one

that broke the silence,

usually,

he broke promises,

always.

My voice cracked through the granulated air,

I'm supposed to make a list

of 100 things

I like about myself.

Turning to me 

abruptly 

he laughed heartedly

It's hard- I said humbly.

I bet, he mumbled 

awkwardly

while looking far away.

After another silence

grew thick 

My moles, I even listed them-

Name some-

thing 

you like about me?

He did not respond

Until 

taking a deep drag and

flicking his ash, 

with emphasis

I like your mole too...

In the backdrop behind him,

the horizon cast dying rays 

of violent pink and orange-gold

Truimphant

over all

marking this blissful moment 

of Beauty 

missed

by one.

Artist: Gaston Bussière (1862-1928), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

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. 

Bad hair day

He just came to bed.
The clock is wrong.
I am late
for nothing
so I get up before the alarm
and there is a notification
waiting for me
about a suspicious charge
to approve via Texting Y or N.
The internet is not working,
the wifi dissipated
my money evaporated.

My new husband
drinks, thirsting for his further demise.
My daughter starved herself
famished for failure.
My son avoided the real world
where the day breaks
optimism down into an icy rain
while the wind is whipping up
a bad batch
of loose and split ends.




Painting by Edgar Degas (1834-1917), 'Nackte beim Kämmen' in Public Domain.