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On Tap at the Kwick Shop
by Rachelle Howe
i'd found her at a quickie mart.
she slurred her words,
her intentions, and
deliberate need for
short skirts and fast cars.
i watched her slander and squander,
her thighs and hips,
those that opened like a 7-11.
(she was 24/7, i tell you.)
wracking her nails
down the backs of random men
she'd sneek through (right under my nose!),
she was the harliquin.
the addict. the addiction.
she'd used the last one for his sperm.
he demanded she have an abortion.
she flat out refused, spouting that
she'd worked hard
to break the condom and
should enjoy the spoils of war.
i was there when she delivered.
the baby came out like a bad wreck,
with blood and screams.
(like when she had been conceived,
under predetermined notions, that poor demon.)
she slept with treacherous arms wrapped
around the fetus. still born, like her,
the night she was spit out of hell
(and into my buy-one-get-one apathy.)
08/07/2004 Author's Note: *just dies laughing.* okay. um. the whole thing got botched. but it's still hilarious to me. just.. be gentle. i firmly apologize for the mess.
Posted on 08/07/2004
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Max Bouillet on 08/08/04 at 06:14 AM Powerfully sad images. It feels like someone that is trying to forcibly laugh to keep from crying or going completely mad with reality and grief. Very powerful. Intriguing read that I shall dwell on for a while. |
| Posted by Karen Michelle on 08/09/04 at 12:09 AM I agree that there are two different tones here, and though the first half of this poem is my favourite, I don't necessarily think that the switch detracts in any way. This poem brings out something forbidden in me, almost. The tragedy is comical and I feel myself chuckling (albeit it silently) where I should perhaps be weeping. Good work. |
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