222 red

The true stories of
true love always emerging
upon exhale, for Barbara
it was their first
dance.   While she showed
ferocious here-to-there footwork, the
envy of all who watched, it was her
husband’s jealousy that made her
toe the line.  He admonishes her
grace with a pulled-close stare,
and tells her only whores wear
lipstick that red.  Too Barbie.

A son and daughter later, her lipstick
is a shade lighter; his punches draw
forth blood as replacement red.
And she bears it with no grin,
protecting her children and her smile
from each punch. In between alternating
blows from each of his fists
and his scalding insults,
she grits her teeth and prays
for one day when she’ll again
draw a happy breath.  Two Barbaric.

One wouldn’t expect this to be
a happy occasion; somehow, she
has survived to their thirtieth
wedding anniversary. True love is
not their true story, but true grit
scaffolds her grin as she preps
the menu for his extended family
members.  Breathing in the aroma
of a job well done, dinner is served.
Gorging themselves on the smoked
meat, the gathered compliment her
as hostess, noting his tardiness. And
as her explanation is uncovered, his
severed head, with a fist in mouth
and entrail garnish, draws away any
remarks about her bright red smile.
To Barbecue.