Sunday, January 22, 2012
She faked it. As he rolled
on top of her smelling
of tobacco, she secretly
plotted his malevolent death.
A rare poison perhaps?
What about a radioactive
particle of some sort?
Her soft moans became copious,
until she panted, cooed, sweat
rolling down dusty cheeks.
Or were they simply pungent tears?
Only she knew the answer
to this preposterous question.
After he left for work, she seized
two green, canvas suitcases
from atop the closet shelf,
packed as much clothes, photographs,
and mementoes as she dared.
She put the hemlock away,
the plutonium secured safely
in her vivid imagination.
The 5:40 plane would escort
her to freedom, cutting the plush clouds
with razor sharp wings taking her to mystical
lands: Madagascar, Bali, Puerto Vallarta.
The horror returned for a split second.
Could he find her? Chase her around
the mulberry bush, hoping to remain
hidden or invisible? Even gossamer
truths do not openly speak.
It would entail more than fortitude
to acquire a sense of self-esteem:
years of therapy and self-reflection,
why she had stayed, why she had loitered,
even after the callous blow while pregnant.
He had undermined her dreams, her essence,
so that she had welcomed her own death.
Even alive, she would be amongst
the walking wounded, the forever injured.
But in this crystalline moment,
she could not refrain from smiling,
because by the time he had returned
home that chilly winter evening,
the 5:40 plane would have flown,
taking her to a destination anywhere.
Frontiers discovered long past
by famous explorers, and stealthy
migrators, were all new and fresh,
because he had no stake, no claim,
in what was in store, only her courage
born in lily fields and clover skies.
And she cherished the revelation.