Beauty begats violence
Blood drip drip drips
on the clean linoleum. The day has
scarcely begun, the rooster crows, and
already the yelling starts. As if it ever ended
yesterday. Hands cover ears, as I shake my head.
No one washed dinner dishes, or maybe those were
the night before. Days blend into days.
I cannot see the sun for the clouds over my eyes,
brought on by the Merlot or Malbec. One red is
much like another after bottle number five.
Empties clink together as I shuffle towards
the trailer’s only door.
Your hand lightly on my shoulder wakes me
like a Pacific wave crashing on Long Beach.
I don’t stop to think before I turn and throw
a left hook on your right jaw.
Specific injuries defined by specific actions
or reactions; you stumble back, falling over
those damn empty bottles, smashing cups,
saucers, glasses, pots,
landing in the bankette seating, both arms draped over
your precious face.
You always were too beautiful, Mother said, you could have
been
a cover model on Vanity Fair. But you said,
skin wrinkles with age as beauty fades. Then I said, You
should have been a poet.
© Catherine Woods 2017
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