Domesticated Violence
They said love was tender,
so I offered my throat
to your ghost-mouth,
let your breath curl into mine—
viscous as syrup left out,
subject to the shape of its jar.
Your bombardment
of devotion felt like hail,
each for your own good
sharpened
to a fine mother's edge.
A crate arrived
that you wouldn’t let me open,
labeled not yours,
but warm to the touch,
and I swear
I heard it weeping.
When I finally pried it open,
the dark inside eclipsed me,
but not like the moon—
like a father
who's sat too close in the pew.
No light gets in.
No light wants to.
I closed it back up
before you came in.
Then we went to breakfast.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
