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the Ex's go marching, one by one...
by Rachelle Howei bought your mother.
she was a quiet little crucifix
that had been broken
in the flea market.
there were days that i
would vomit your memory,
the taste twice as omnious and stale
upon its return.
tears were often afforded
to lesser fellows, those foreign
to the word grief,
idiots who stared with dead eyes and
spewed things like:
"could you possibly
know what love is?
you, with your ivory gaze,
metal piercings, and
frosted flakes."
i always wondered
what they meant by that.
today, i bartered for
a new pair of shoes.
i expounded the old ones,
their leather weathered and frayed.
in retrospect, they have your ring:
putting pride in appearance
only when it suited your schemes.
after all, it was forever about you.
especially in bed where
i'd become a silent auction,
my hands your purchased prize.
beneath ten finger artwork,
you writhed, impassioned calligraphy;
body scrawled and vulnerable
like half-written poetry.
i couldn't pen you now even if my muse
called your number.
your ink has dried
on the pages of another novel;
ours left unfinished, and cast aside. 08/07/2004 Author's Note: For you, Mr. Daniel Rollings. *edit, edit, edit.*
Posted on 08/07/2004
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kristine Briese on 08/07/04 at 11:39 PM "writhing in calligraphy" -- I want this talent you have for perfect, blinding images |
| Posted by Karen Michelle on 08/09/04 at 12:21 AM I really like the imagery of the marketplace, as though love is a commercial transaction. In a way, it almost is, I suppose. We each enter into the deal with so much to give and an expectation of what we will receive. When it ends, we discard the shell, like worn out shoes and go window shopping for our next purchase. But even though we let go of the old, and search for the new, we can never really forget the blisters those old boots gave us or the long walks we enjoyed in them... |
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