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Last Words Before Bed

by Lisa Marie Brodsky

The poet I love
writes only of my wounds.
Though she calls
me a warrior while lying beside me,
crushed in bed against the wall,
I am no fighter;
I just do what I have to do
to survive. She thinks
I have a choice. She praises the moment
after a spike of pain, which feels like
a hot iron pressed against my skin.
She hails me as brave while I swallow hard;
it is all I can do not to scream.

02/11/2008

Posted on 02/12/2008
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky

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