Wuthering

By | 1 February 2017

I am another man’s wife—
a fact that eats me
in small bites, zoned out
as the microwave seconds
count down. I think of him
when my husband feels
the need, wrecks me
where I’ve tucked yourself
in [a contortionist’s feat]
to stare at the assault—
how a lie devours daylight
& years. How long past no
does the hole implode?

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