|
UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
|
|
KEITH WOOD
Never Been Used He had a confident stride. Like he’d been born with it. Passed down from some great and wealthy descendant. Just watching him move around the room, gently touching, murmuring subtle compliments, I knew all his loves had been golden, and that none of them had ended with screams, or fingernails clawing blood, or biblical curses right down to the grave. He was well traveled and had all the classics on his bookshelves. He had never known the beaten desperation of a crowded pawnshop. Or a sterile abortion clinic waiting room. Or having to wrestle a shotgun out of his father’s arms after much whiskey and regret. I do not hate him as I ask his wife to dance, then lead her softly out onto the floor, my hand casually grazing her magnificent ass. A Feral Brunette Blur She ambushes me on the couch, laughing, spinning, a feral brunette blur I’ve managed to catch. The stalking wasn’t easy, nor was the move to captivity. Domestication will be brutal. She throws things. Shoes. Tennis rackets. Spaghetti. Wine. But I know she loves me and wants to stay. Her diet is vegan, so I’m learning to adapt. Fresh produce. Wild rice. Mashed potatoes without pork chops. It’s a big buildup that never quite delivers. I sneak out for cheeseburgers. Tender meat between my lips, like her immaculate thigh pressing down, gentle but firm. She roams, but never far. I pet her in the dark, whispering promises that seem to tame. Keith Wood lives and works in Mississippi. He has been published in a few little magazines here and there, but he sends most of his stories and poems to Underground Voices and Cherry Bleeds, and hopes that his mom isn’t reading any of them. You can get him at kwoodphilly@msn.com |
|
© 2004-2009 Underground Voices |
|
|