(After seven years)
you violated the ultimate human(istic) agreement:
I keep to my side of the bed, you keep to yours.
Staring at your constantly-fading face and
evaporating outline, if I learned anything,
it’s that I was made for better things.
I took a chisel to the bedframe and carved a gorge
between us. Gleefully, the Hudson burst the windowpanes
washed up a conch shell for my sailing home.
The last I’d heard the barnacles had blinded you,
so you could never objectify again; they complained,
even they, could not clean that sin off of you.
The Hudson isn’t a river, it’s a tidal estuary; and I,
let’s clarify, was never successfully victimized.
We offer you eternity to feel seasick at the thought.
M. Eileen writes and breathes near water. Her poetry and prose has been featured in publications both local and international ranging from Hanging Loose to Rogue Agent, S/tick to Monkeybicycle. She can be located at @m_e_g_writes. This poem previously appeared in S/tick magazine.
