The Marionette
Put your hand on the phone,
now off;
fold legs and pray.
Let the slow twitch of neck
sob away your wooden heart.
I’ll fill that lonely bed
with a shade of hell
black as the creosote
of his soul.
Put your hand
on the phone, now up,
now down,
now share it into pieces
with the wall.
“Where could he be?”
Sap gurgles
in the tremble of chest,
thoughts of the woman after hours.
Seeing her yarn hair
mussed like the vision
of oaken dermis splitting.
How you crave the feeling,
hands pressed in damning prayer,
plans of a cleaver
and a curse — how easy
the rings of life will sever.
By the door,
hurry; hush;
hear his keys jangle,
the blushing tumbler curtsy
like his mistress
an hour before.
Raise the instrument,
rigid arm as the guillotine,
and now wait,
wait,
and now breathe―
Strut that sweet steel,
beaded eyes unmoved
as he settles into pieces
along the carpet.
Soft as the first time
you two touched lips,
remember the pleasure always.
