He doesn’t tell me disappears into the bathroom stays ten minutes no toilet sound flushing comes out with a small brown paper bag—rolled tight at the top opens the front door hands it to a woman I've never seen before magma spews up my body marrow-hot bone-lit catapults me out of the house to spill, wail, rant trust splattered I, who can freight no more children my then-husband donates to another woman who will raise his child the child I hunger to bear
Thanks, love. Sending you a letter addressed to Bart (a poet friend) but this is for you to read to know what's actually going on with us. And, we've fine. Our spirits are fine.
This story with it's to and fro touches one's heart. One hopes such feelings might find a place in our constellation that still allows our lives to find freedom and happiness.
Sharing it this way here inspires one to be deep with one's truths and find the paths that allow creating the flowering our experiences offer us. Thank you.
Thank you dear Dragoneye. This was 40 years ago, and I am strong-spirited, filled with joy, creating, and still very much in love with my "new" husband of 38 years. Thank you for commenting. This poem had to be written.
Thank you for trusting us with something so deeply personal. I can only imagine how much courage it took to write these lines. The image of the small brown paper bag stayed with me long after I finished reading. Some poems don't ask to be admired—they ask to be witnessed. This is one of them.
Oof! What a story. But wow! Your writing has moved to the next level of awesomeness.
Thanks, love. Sending you a letter addressed to Bart (a poet friend) but this is for you to read to know what's actually going on with us. And, we've fine. Our spirits are fine.
He doesn't tell her. He has already broken trust.
Vivid poem. Sound true.
Thank you, Mare. Absolutely true. 40 years ago. New, wonderful, trustworthy husband of 38 years.
My second husband was great. Not the first. Second time around we do know more.
Laughing out loud. The husband in the poem was husband three. My beloved is husband #four. Slow learner here!!
This story with it's to and fro touches one's heart. One hopes such feelings might find a place in our constellation that still allows our lives to find freedom and happiness.
Sharing it this way here inspires one to be deep with one's truths and find the paths that allow creating the flowering our experiences offer us. Thank you.
Thank you dear Dragoneye. This was 40 years ago, and I am strong-spirited, filled with joy, creating, and still very much in love with my "new" husband of 38 years. Thank you for commenting. This poem had to be written.
Dear Amrita,
Thank you for trusting us with something so deeply personal. I can only imagine how much courage it took to write these lines. The image of the small brown paper bag stayed with me long after I finished reading. Some poems don't ask to be admired—they ask to be witnessed. This is one of them.
With affection from Cuttack.
Marrow hot, bone lit. I can see and feel that!
Ouch
This rips me apart. Brilliant poem