The Ecphorizer
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Your blond ex-wife grows callouses on her sleeves.
When you walked into the room she stiffened. You swallowed overcooked anger, years and years of her, like a secret to be hidden from the enemy. Your anger eats away your hands, the glutton battery acid running down your shoes. You measure friends by how much venom they take out and show. You cannot see your own. It rises near the surface of your skin, lives along the seams of you and bakes your blood. She is wrinkled in your memory. You are hungry for one long look at her face. You vented all your anger in a dream one night. When the light came in you panted prayers thanking God the real you was so tame. Your blond ex-wife grows callouses on her fingers, and is trying to razor all the deadened skin away. She cannot decide whether to go out in the rain without them, knowing you are out there gathering thunder to your breast. ![]() Poetess Sheila E. Murphy sends us her poems from Phoenix, Arizona. More Articles by Sheila E. Murphy |
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