acetylene

 

acetylene torches in her smolder,

the grip clasps my skin, though my shirt,

the cloth tourniquet Indian burns                               my soul

 

claire’s fuming in heat, loins ready raw, n*****s taught,

flushed and bruising, as       I            walk       towards     the      door.

 

livid, pulse beat the (ear)drums, floor toms, loud,

bursting the mean streak out into obvious,

suffocating her flames, I blurt

how could you?

 

but      I     know        the        answerrewsna     

like the kcab of my dnah

 

cause of death; rejection.

brought on by projectile tantrum

and bitter chocolate chips in my feelings.

 

the alley seems so far away, dark, wet, and I’ve no flashlight. 

but hatter mad and ready for a brawl,

her smack calls me out,

red stinging cheek, I turn the other instead,

and out from her pressure push palms, as    I           SLAM,                          the door,

don’t be here when I get back!

 

 

visible breath cold, still, and                                    echoing the grit between my souls

          and

     the cement,

each brick stepped on leaps up to the complete the walls.

 

hours of searching numb and frostbit,

finding only trash, matted piles of twigs and leaves in the gutters,

cigarette buts smashed flat and discarded,

the house is quiet,

her whimpering tuned out, the desperation gone,

I succumb to charity.

you can stay the night. do you need a pillow?

 

 

in the morning, the covers are folded in a pile.

almost as if I dreamt it, flashes nightmare black haunt,

 

and spluttering in the cab going home,

she thinks,

this must be how dying people feel, clinging to                the last of                   life.

 

 

 

Reviews

[Heather Angelika Dooley]

Ross, this was oh sooo powerful. Ugh! How many times I have felt as though nothing had happened by morning. I would've have never attacked a poem with that perspective. I am WAY impressed with this poem's content. It is very original and......well, simply awesome. You are unique and that is what I love about your work!

[Shemena Campbell]

I feel this one at the top of my larynx, all tight. It surely reminds me of a box that I packed away into the back of my closet. These are brittle emotions, stuff that most of us won't look at squarely no matter what side of the interaction we're on. Brave stuff.S.