Today I heard a young woman read a poem
in which her husband lifts her bare bottom
onto the kitchen counter
and, in the next line, spreads her legs.
The marriage has problems. They may already be divorced.
But suddenly I am ruing the fact
that no one has lifted my bottom onto a kitchen counter.
Not when my bottom trotted high and proud.
And not when it began to eye the floor
as if contemplating the future.
And now, I’m going to die
without ever being taken on those cold hard tiles.
Don’t tell me it’s not too late. It is.
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése