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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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CYNTHIA RUTH LEWIS AFTERWARDS, IN FLUORESCENT GLARE I wanted to tell you at the restaurant after the drinks came; something to help loosen my tongue and ease the truth out I wanted to tell you about all the other men. I wanted to tell you quietly that your wife was a whore, that she just couldn't help it that they all somehow reminded her of her father, that elusive man she still chased in dreams but I couldn't; didn't want to cause a scene, ruin the evening and the meal passed in silence save for slight clinking of silverware against dish and the quiet hum of emotional devastation on the horizon and afterwards, trading the subdued lighting of the restaurant for the harsh glare of Walgreens to pick up a few forgotten things; you grasped my hand in the toothpaste aisle a small smile before contemplating which brand was cheaper-- which tube had more value for less cost, and there amongst the display of mouthwash and floss, slick as spitting fresh mint residue out of polished mouths, the filthy words shot from my lips; all the men and motel trips, revealing the going rate for your wife these days-- compare her worth alongside the cavity-fighting products spread in harsh fluorescent glare before you, you'll see she costs even less ENDURANCE It's a sad day when you realize you wasted your life hating the wrong parent-- the one who never acknowledged you the one who seemingly ignored you, the one that you feared and wrote countless twisted poems about and sometimes saw in nightmares and then you learn through a lot of therapy and reflection that your paranoia and over-all psychotic persona is really a gift from the parent who doted on you the one who never left your side the one who instilled her psychotic beliefs in your mind while you were still too young to know what the hell was going on and you drank from the offered cup, innocently, because parents always know best and you grew up wondering what was wrong with the world-- why you couldn't trust anybody why everything only enraged you and why you could always only see the tarnished side of the coin-- that kind of parental attention I could have done without but, they say every learned behavior can be unlearned and, even though I'm still a far cry from achieving peace of mind I find that mother dear bothers me less as the days go by; her poison tongue doesn't grate on my nerves quite as harshly as before but sometimes the warm afternoon sunlight glinting off my father's urn, slightly beyond the range of her maniacally gyrating arms, is just a little too much to bear |
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