My first marriage was the North Pole,
the second a pervert,
and Roger is the South Pole,
and I'm stuck on the divided line,
trying to navigate
the children in between.
I think, maybe, I'm dysfunctional,
incited by riots of the heart.
Going back to my second husband;
he stole women's bras,
strapped them around cut off stumps.
I remember finding them under a full moon.
They looked like headless nymphs wearing c,
d, and double-d cups on display.
He clasped his hands to the hem
of his tight t-shirt,
lifted it to the sky,
and tossed it aside.
I crossed my arms,
and for some reason I thought of slingshots.
On this day my voice was wrong,
a lemon on a peach tree.
When confronting him
his silence was heavy,
like a cloud of smoke that follows
a hydrogen bomb.
Minute shyness breaks out,
and everyone walks in circles.
All this gaits together with kindred modulations,
seems mysteriously revealing.
Lingering we embrace,
separate with resolve,
then embrace once more.
Afternoon halts us,
turns us toward each other
in sidesplitting laughter.
I think I'll probably never see
such things again.
