I Marry Them

Today’s poem was originally published in After the Pause, 2016. It might reflect the theme of my upcoming collection. Comments are deeply appreciated.

I Marry Them

Young, a shining stone, I rise to muscle, beat and reach

Snake my thighs around him, grasp and shatter, line of bone, edge of flesh

I marry him, even though he’s angry, even though he drinks

He whets his fists. On my arm a black bruise drains to green under my skin

Later, when it’s my face, I sneak away, keys in my palm

And drive north out of Jersey, across the George Washington Bridge

And on to Boston where I hawk papers in the dawn rain

But I’m hungry to be held so I tread the water

Of another man’s lust, sift its ashes for compassion, turn over my keys

Tape shut the container from which my mouth once uttered its sway and preferences

I marry him, even though he binds my lungs

Even though he blows his own breath into my mouth

Mornings I tie an apron around my waist

Make coffee, watch jays through the kitchen window

They cry in summer heat, false hawks tearing at nests of eggs

And I’m false, too. Bitter cold. I drink shots of vodka, leave half the bottle

On the table beside a plate, put a hot meal in the oven on low heat

And leave with what I own--a toothbrush, a towel. Bills and change

From the polished top of his dresser. I ride the subway to the bus station

Homeless women push shopping carts, men hover, hide bottles, lean to me

I go north, broke and sober. I marry and marry

Each time, I strip myself of history, cloak myself in new fog

But the jaw smack of that fist still corners me in kitchens

I fall beneath bodies and my own bones crackle in wood stoves

I burn like light behind closed eyes and still the scent of dogwood

The wrath of Jersey bogs, white moon over ocean, shore birds

Shadows and stone and the dream of his body

Standing in front of the slammed door, trapping me

Window full of moon. My death a line from his hawk’s eyes

To my face. How I moved as though he were a coiled snake

How I crooned. Pools of moon. How I pulled him to bed, to sleep

How I crept to the car and crept through the years

Under stars shining like knives of cut light over stone