Behind the glitter and wealth, the privilege and beauty; behind the sophistication and elocution, some women are virtually slaves in their marital homes. They hide the scars behind smiles and tell you everything is fine but they are not fine. No they are not. This poem shares a picture of their travails.
Flutes and flowers,
Knee touching trembling knee,
Tapering nails resting
On nylon stocking blurring skin,
Hiding scars, needle marks and memory.
Silverware and china
On flower patterned table cloth
Kissing gloved fingers
Hiding gold rings and eggsize rubies,
And pearl chokers hiding bruises
Which heavy, familiar hands had made.
Like a fairy tree
Holding hung corpses
Swinging in the soft wind.
Grandfather clock, pendulum swinging
Like heavy cock waiting to impregnate
The vulva of tomorrow
With the semen of today.
Dancing with silverware clicking
On tabletop as soft morsels
Of well sauced flesh
Find lips and teeth, then tongue to taste
And brusied oesophagus to swallow.
Wine to wash down the dead meat
Like the same brew
That forgot and numbed the beatings.
At fickle endearments
That grip tight the heart and squeeze
Like a broken pump coughing the last
Dusty sprinkle of water
Before the drought wakes.
Tears hanging like dropping earrings
Holding heavy teardrop pearls;
Fifty-five thousand dollars worth
Of ear weight
To keep the ears open;
Already going deaf
From too many slaps and punches.
And smile;
Makeup cracking,
The bruises creeping to the fore
Then the smile flicker
But the ladies’ saves the day.
Another mirror, a quiet time,
A drop of tear, eyedrops
And a dab of powder.
Back to the table and to
The cold lips grinning
As the heavy hand grips
The stocking knee, squeezes
And reminds that the dinner will end
And there’s home to face.