go to: http://www.picassomio.com/lucia-arjona-amo/5322.html
the screen door slams as the man she loves fled out the back.
she doesn't shower, she wreaks
of musk and sex and doesn't care.
she lights a cigarette as she hears her husband in the driveway.
he's the kind with the corporate haircut, briefcase,
he's simple, yes or no, black or white.
he hates cigarette smoke but not enough to fight over it today.
he asks her where she wants to eat tonight, coughing,
breaking the sentence into phrases.
she's sitting there like she wants, smoking with no restraint,
starring past her husband's shoulder at the book shelves,
patient with her thoughts. never has he seen her so empty,
and for a second, he feels slightly uneasy and takes a couple steps back.
she is the type of woman that puts a man out like a cigarette,
the orange light melts into black, smoldering
where the fire used to breathe.
she averts her eyes and tells him everything,
even the parts shame usually silences and guilt thrives.
her eyes, dilated balloons, words tucking themselves into him
like hooks, roll off her tongue like slow honey.
in the end, he probably sits for moments in silence
after she quits speaking, engulfed in his own disdain
because he will probably never free her to dangle on her own independence,
he reasons, or another's upper hand
that knows the kind of woman she is. the kind that stays
no matter where she's put because she loves men like this.
Poetry by Christin Brennan
Read 1296 times
Written on 2010-04-16 at 23:16
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"Carolina's Dress..."
Inspired by..."Carolina's Dress. Anne-Laure. Swansea, March 00" by Lucia Arjona Amo (http://www.picassomio.com/lucia-arjona-amo/5322.html)the screen door slams as the man she loves fled out the back.
she doesn't shower, she wreaks
of musk and sex and doesn't care.
she lights a cigarette as she hears her husband in the driveway.
he's the kind with the corporate haircut, briefcase,
he's simple, yes or no, black or white.
he hates cigarette smoke but not enough to fight over it today.
he asks her where she wants to eat tonight, coughing,
breaking the sentence into phrases.
she's sitting there like she wants, smoking with no restraint,
starring past her husband's shoulder at the book shelves,
patient with her thoughts. never has he seen her so empty,
and for a second, he feels slightly uneasy and takes a couple steps back.
she is the type of woman that puts a man out like a cigarette,
the orange light melts into black, smoldering
where the fire used to breathe.
she averts her eyes and tells him everything,
even the parts shame usually silences and guilt thrives.
her eyes, dilated balloons, words tucking themselves into him
like hooks, roll off her tongue like slow honey.
in the end, he probably sits for moments in silence
after she quits speaking, engulfed in his own disdain
because he will probably never free her to dangle on her own independence,
he reasons, or another's upper hand
that knows the kind of woman she is. the kind that stays
no matter where she's put because she loves men like this.
Poetry by Christin Brennan
Read 1296 times
Written on 2010-04-16 at 23:16
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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