Mrs. H (Day 26)

(Today’s prompt at the National Poetry Writing Month website is to write a poem from the persona of another person.)

He tricked me–lured me with flowers and sweet words and promises of a future spent cuddling on the sofa in front of a crackling fire in an impossibly clean upper-middle class home his writing royalties paid for, a future where we ate vegetarian picnic meals in the sun on 73° blue sky afternoons by a lake where the breeze made ripples and fish broke the water’s surface and shimmered for our personal amusement before disappearing in the blue-green depths.

But he changed, and maybe they all do to some extent, but he never got rich which in itself is okay but all that potential I saw in him  at 20 stinks of rot and decay now (or maybe that’s just his breath or armpits or ass–who can be sure?) and any time we cuddle he tries to slide a hand over my breast and kiss my neck as if snuggles are foreplay, plus he hates the sun because his eyesight’s failing and natural light washes everything out so he can barely see my features let alone an acrobatic bluegill at a state park.

But I love him, because I chose him and he chose me, and he still makes me laugh and I still turn him on and he can still be trained and bent to my will, so perhaps that future he promised is just ahead, waiting to surprise me with a bouquet and a poem he made from words cut out of magazines.  

Maybe tomorrow.

  

Advertisements

About semiblind

Bringing you stark existentialism since 1981.
This entry was posted in best-laid plans, family, NaPoWriMo, poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s