there is a certain
c h i l l
to callused, cruel fingertips
which gradually have become
accustomed to the luxury of smooth skin.

cringing, the heroin(e) cowers from
a touch that's more explicitly foreign
than some randomly made up language.

(he often
spoke in his own
verbose, liquor induced slur.)

there was something
v a c a n t
in eyes chiseled out of chilled, beguiling anger
and marble-plated self loathing.

the scene is set:
she, on the floor of her stomach,
and he, the one holding the yanked
umbilical cord.

the question on the minds of
her family, her friends...
(even she, at the hour
of her death...):

how does one recover
once they have become bonded
to one they used to call 'lover,' only
to have that man be devoured
by a stranger?

they could have been twins,
(had it not been for one telltale sign;
one detail that blared in the memory
of that broken girl)

the only thing that separated the
animal from the man:
a muffled, muted heartbeat,
laying dormant in a tomb of bone.

11/25/2001

Posted on 11/25/2001
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe