Emotional bullets
invisible fingers cocked at my temple
harmless on the surface
lethal to my spirit
You fired.
The poems were decimated.
Ink ran every where.
They died instantly.
“You dump all your anger into your poetry,”
you said
(or something like that.
It sounded like criticism.)
I was terrified to cross you
while you held a gun to my head;
so, I dropped them.
The thud echoed in the chambers of my heart,
a duet with the empty pistol.
Sixteen years later,
our marriage long dead and gone,
my life rounding the finish line
to Wholeness:
I am taking back the poems!
I found your ransom note
crumpled in my notebook.
“Your poems or your life,” it said
(as if there were a difference).
~~~
Photo Credit: Closeup of a fountain pen © Hpphoto Dreamstime.com
© 2010 by Joyce Mason
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