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Image for the poem sorrow of women

sorrow of women


nothing is ever little to a woman.

take kissing, for example. I like to kiss. my rough mouth
on her soft lips, my tongue pushing down on hers like I
need to subjugate her. & if it leads us between the sheets,
that’s fine with me… any excuse to get outa my clothes.

& it’s more heroic to shoot the bullseye when it’s inside a
dame. sure, sex is a sweet diversion, somethin’ to do
between cigarettes.

but it’s a lot heavier for a woman. if she’s got feelings for a
man, she’ll carry it in her heart for a long time, even if he
doesn’t stick around for breakfast. I never could figure it.

but don’t get me wrong, I like women. I try to act like a
gentleman, as much as my savage heart will allow. & I
never hit a dame unless she’s got it comin’.

see, that’s the thing about hurt: it is so much a woman’s
domain, it oughta be dressed in pink. her own burden, to
absorb all the sorrow in the world.

a woman’s sorrow can be a hairline fracture on a cheek bone,
washed-out purple of a bruise covered by a cream or powder,
whatever was on sale at the drugstore. dried tracks of her tears
that stay anonymous if you don’t look in her eyes. something
you won’t find in a poem.

but it goes a lot deeper than that…


(Art: Germaine Krull)

Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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