It falls upon me like
a hun.
We wrestle,
roll across the bed.
Its knife-point pricks
my throat.
And after each false step,
each faux pas, every foolishness,
discountenance comes grinning
with its zipper in one hand,
its dagger in the other.

I writhe in shame and moan
my mea culpa.

And afterwards
I lie here like a bedsore.
I am a doxy of regret.
I am its concubine,
its sow.
Can this be love?

Today will be the day.
I’ll shower dress drink juice
go out.
I will divorce chagrin.
It will not fuck me any more.

Linda Frye Burnham 2013

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