Some raw sadness yet echoes
Along that river, beside that corner,
The turn that she nearly made.
They spent years sharpening their HBs
And that day they got to stick their peevish
Pen-knives into her private recesses
Crossing that, never ticking this
And the weight of the silent “I told you so”
Bending her hopes between the lines.
He swore he never laid a hand on her
But the taste of the sweat of his lip
Poisoned her smile forever.
Her hand trembled so much in that sparse, creaking hall
But only she knew it was time receding
And all she wanted to do was vomit time out of her wretchedness.
The skidmarks were short, more like a late valedictory nod
As you leave the Saturday pub
Than a desperate change of heart.
And that was her contused legacy
To a nubilous morning’s hollow tears.
.
Stephen A. Linstead
.