A Fable

Weeping, she has knelt beside the coffin, knelt    
upon the pew, gone home to bow like a Geisha,    
opening the flower of her mouth to accept    
the hairy member of her husband—the day’s    
last quivering communion wafer.  Always,    
   
the ragged joints of subjugation, bending,    
scraping, against the carpets and wood,    
cement, and earth, like they were born    
for it, as each time it got harder and harder    
for her to rise.  This could be seen as early    
   
as childhood:  sitting quiet with dolls    
at her father’s feet as he yelled    
at the TV hockey game, empty beer cans    
piling in cairns around the ratty recliner;    
and later, at teenage make-out sessions    
   
in dark-paneled basements, her body folded under    
as small as possible beside the couch, waiting    
for the boy to come down and pin the cruel    
angles of himself against her.  She felt big    
like a bear but made herself small like    
   
a fawn, and this continued for decades    
until one day on the phone when the stars were right,    
her animal anger roared up and she cut the father out.    
Next she left the husband stupefied in the kitchen    
as the kettle screeched holy hell, and driving    
   
past church on the way out of town, flipped off    
the bird, double.  Now she stands unfurled with a wild    
air, stomps around in three-inch heels, and if men    
want her they have to beg.  So what if it didn’t happen    
that quick and simple.  It still happened.   
 
 
 
*Note: This poem also appears in The Legendary:  
http://www.downdirtyword.com/authors/laurentivey.html