I want this poem to sound melancholy for you;
a tone that shuffles hushed like shoes;
touches sweet like morning light barnside, struck
by the coltish prance of dawn. I want to mumble
like a razor over stubble, spoken in long
strokes with nowhere to go but up. But
I can't. You bastard, I can't.
Nobody ever saw you chilling in my soul
like a cheap white wine; every inch of your tongue
was a diving board for fiction.
I'd like to say it kinder, but I shan't.
There were as many versions of you
as a lie and I watched them
muscle in like bombers.
Michelle M. Maihiot lives in Massachusetts with her beloved Siamese cat, Satan. She has been published in Bay Windows, Midwest Poetry Review, Sojourner, and The Rockford Review among other periodicals.
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