Sunday, April 19, 2009

Letting her breath again.

She sleeps with one eye open, sawed off shotgun by her waist; her baby sleeps in the hedges of her hips. Her angel is what she now protects from what her batter soul has let in. Drumming fingers on splintered nightstands, praying that this dead bolt will hold up to his last stand. She wishes that scattered bullet shells didn’t have to her “Dear John Song” but she is tired of trying to sing his soul into his eternal sleep so she has opted for a shotgun wedding to hell. She can’t wait until the peace and resting of her honeymoon. She remembers his fist pounding in her back as his eyes lingered to hard at their daughter. He looked at here like he knew her, like Adam knew Eve, be her was not trying to birth dynasties but bury her soul into the broken pieces of what I use to be, you bastard. I remember when I was happy; I remember when we were a family. Drumming fingers has now become the ball dropping on his drifting lifeline. I hear his silver death dealer click, clacking into the doorway. I wonder if he would have walked in if he knew what was waiting for him on the other side of this door. Honey, I have been practicing. I have been practicing, going into the backyard, taking short range aim at anything that resembles your chest. I have been praying for this day, when the pitter patters of your heart stops… This is for all the times you thought it was ok to beat your shortcomings into my body. All the times that you entered your pending Queen, breaking her crown before she was ready to sit on anyone’s thrown. So we lay in this bed, holding what’s left of each other’s shatter souls, making sure the pieces don’t slip out of our skin. You’re at the Door now, my fingers, shaky on this trigger, not because I am nervous about the outcome but so ready shit to be over. I hold our daughter’s belly, forming fingertips on God’s sense of humor. She asked me last night to stop the moving in her belly, she says the fishes keep her up at night. I tell her, we will hold each other and make sure the fishes in both our bellies find their way to heaven cause this family can’t take anymore heartbeats from the same drummer. I wonder when you opened the door if staring down two barrels was your Idea of a goodtime. I’ll give you 10 seconds to think about it… 1….2….10. Silence after shots is the most beautiful sound. I hope you bleed as well as you said I did. Rest Well for you new family is calling you home.

1 comment:

Shelle said...

you know i like this suggestion...see if "i hope you bleed as well as you said i did" at the end of the poem for a stronger finish...just a thought.