He said thank you

after Al’s Love and Happiness
flew out the cracked window
while the smothering Southern night flew in,
after the taste of cheap wine crouched
like something dead in her mouth,
after anticipation for this night
evaporated in her sweat and struggle,
after her underwear was left shredded
on the floorboard,
after she realized her bruised shoulders
would never grow wings.

***

Flaming Heart

I reclaimed my body through tattoos. A bluebird for freedom, a fleur-de-lis for persistence, a flaming heart for survival. You never understood the symbolism, the need. You spat your derision with every inked addition, called me trash. You told me no man would ever want to touch me. You never understood that my body is mine and the needle is my choice. The pain, mine. You never cared about my reasons. For years you threw your words like darts at a target, my self-esteem absorbing every jab. They say you suffered at the end. Rattled breath, nails clawing your throat, each call of my name a nail in your coffin. At the hour of death you appeared before me in the blue twilight of my TV, your skin, translucent as a baby’s, revealed two words on your chest. Forgive Me seared in your disintegrating flesh. Pointing the remote, I clicked, and you vanished like the remnants of a bad dream while on screen Lisbeth toyed with the abusive husband dangling from his ankles.

Photo by Julia Karnavusha on Unsplash