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These days, when He watches her, she unconsciously moves 
                      a fringe of hair to veil her eyes, 
and even that is cause for His chagrin. 

The nights He comes home wasted, smelling of beer,
 He minces her with vile slurring words, incoherent bile 
that       slices holes and seeps      into      her soul 
                     until she feels her entrails          quiver.    

If she dares to speak, He seizes that moment to play Lord and Master 
       and put her in her serfage place (though ironically, the plebian is He).  
He screams at her, “What is that?      What’s that you say?” 
She yearns to know the shibboleth He seeks from her, 
                       that magic utterance      to take His wrath away. 
But they are words not granted her. 

Remission is not hers inside His house. And when the beatings begin,
 she bows on knees enfeebled, soundlessly submitting. 
          From this she has learned she will receive a swifter castigation. 

Afterwards - through the rumbling of His stirring in the bed beside her, 
she lies stone-like, replaying in her mind 
         what has become a more and more familiar fantasy:  
A young man, debonair and kind, touches sandy locks and moves them gently 
         to the side. He holds her face and smiles into her eyes.  
Life with such a man, she thinks, will be for her one day, 
                                                                            exoneration.


Written March 18, 2014 / 
for Shadow Hamilton's The Dark Side of Love Poetry Contest

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