UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
KEITH WOOD

Never Been Used

He had a confident stride.
Like heíd 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 fatherís 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
Iíve managed to catch.

The stalking wasnít 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 Iím learning to adapt.
Fresh produce.
Wild rice.
Mashed potatoes without pork chops.
Itís 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 isnít reading any of them. You can
get him at kwoodphilly@msn.com







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