Fallen Response
How do I drive home after a poem like that?
The recollection of the first time he showed me
My superhero was a junky
He was a juncture on what I was only
just beginning to see
in my ex who flexed me
into a tiny pill bottle and later a needle
before squirting me out on a sheet stained with blood
and flattened me down
lower than the ground
he ground my tailbone into
and yet all i can do
is mesmerize
on the poets invisible lines
he drawa with his hands
reaching into his pants
pocket
for his fix kit
as he reminds me
my every fallen hero has been a junky
And the crowd goes wild!
and then the voices are garbled
din
as I embrace him and embrace him and embrace him again
without ever letting go
and the sweat of his new shaven hairline teases that salty taste to my lips
and I catch myself mid pant, heaving breasts, let go of this
this- I dunno
man?
poet?
performer of the night?
dare I offer my number?
will he want it?
want me?
what am I saying
only reacting to the world he’s displaying
or because I’ve just begun slaying
my own demons at last
yea– i think it’s ok
I think I’ll give this one a chance.
Lost Widow Words © 