February 14, 2010

Feb. 14, 2010
It’s an odd thing to find your husband with another woman.

The tradition in these sort of stories
Is loud shouting
And throwing things
And yelling “You’re not taking the children!”

But then, she was never much of a traditionalist.

Instead, she bolted
Cornsilk hair streaming behind her
Smack into the only bathroom in the house
And bolted herself in.

She sat, among the scent of rose perfume and Vaseline
A look of strange serenity on her face
A wounded Buddha among the cleaning products.

Her husband was the last man in America who still shaved with a straight edge razor. 

She reached up, turned it in her elfin hand, and contemplated the pearl-handled razor for a moment.

She could run out of the bathroom,
Slashing madly at whatever came her way
Sweeny Todd in a berserker rage
And who would blame her?
After all, she was ‘a woman scorned.’

But no. That was never her style.

She considered drawing the razor across her delicate wrists-
Watching lines of red pop up along her pearlescent skin
And watching it stream down in rivulets
Strawberry syrup on cream.
Who would say it was her fault,
Suffering what she had suffered, people would say in that patronizing tone.

It was a possibility, but not a very productive one. She had never liked pity.

She tapped the blunt side of the razor against her wrists
Listening to her husband desperately pounding on the door
Waiting like Buddha
For a third option to present itself.

Reviews

[Monica Garcia]

This piece tells a beautiful and honest story to so many of us.
The true gem here is the idea of a "third option."
We have lived many lives with the belief that there is only 2, a suffocating parallel of this or that. Thank you for opening my eyes to a new dimension.
Simply beautiful.

[Tara Murasaki]

Haha. Brilliant. I loved this poem. Very Very good.