PoetryMagazine.com

Joseph Crow Riley
Page 2

Disposable

 I once did love with all my love,
A love I was unworthy of;
That much was proven on the day
I was easy to throw away.
 
She chose to have another life
And live as someone else’s wife;
But, though she says it’s best this way,
I was easy to throw away.
 
Our love found its ironic end--
She says I should remain a friend;
Yet, all her actions seem to say
I was easy to throw away.
 
Now I am routinely taunted;
Her new life is daily flaunted.
This is the point of that display:
I was easy to throw away...

 

 

 

AS THEY FOUND HER...

it was every morning...
just like every other morning
or so it seemed
 
but it wasn’t
 
the parents unaware
downstairs
in the kitchen
clinking coffee spoons circling in glass
hot coffee
the smell of bacon
muffled conversation floating through the house
 
it was every morning
but it wasn’t
 
then
the howling
 
the almost sad wailing
sneaking over the morning sounds
unthreatening
encroaching
slowly piercing their awareness
chilling
they don’t know why
but it chills them
 
this was new
it had not happened before
and it marked something new
something different
something unwanted and unwelcome
and they knew it
 
yelling up the stairs
no reply
 
just the howling
 
and the faint sound of scratching
the eerie tattletale scratching
whispering its sad little secret
 
and they knew 
for the first time
they knew
it wasn’t every morning
 
not knowing how they knew
but they knew
 
and with a dignified
yet hastened pace
he went first
ascending stairs
 
she lingered slowly behind
like a thick smoke from a pipe
curling around him
“what is it? what’s wrong?”
 
he offers no reply
focused on his destination
turning the corner
floating down the narrow hall
to her door
 
knocking softly
calling her name
but only the howling
only the scratching
only a soft canine whimper
 
climbing the two steps to her room
turning the knob
pushing the door          
greeted by the chaotic shepherd
 
and nothing else
 
she was sleeping
so he thought
just for a fraction of a second
he allowed himself the luxury of that hopeful thought
just for a second
before he was battered
bloodied
brutalized
 
she was not sleeping...
 
the terrier never leaving her side
as she lay
still
pale-green
cold
eyes open
seeing nothing
 
the terrier never left her side
 
he was so stoic
his whole life
dignified
proper
patrician
always in control
but no longer
dropping to his knees
shouting
shouting
shouting
her name
his disbelief
o god
what has his good little girl done?
 
shouting
howling
and the curl of smoke
still in the hallway asking
“what is it? what’s the matter?”
 
the curl of smoke finally entering
seeing
rushing to the bed
“she’s only sleeping
my baby’s only sleeping!”
grabbing her in a desperate cradle of her arms
“my baby! my baby!”

the terrier never leaving her side

the mother clutching imploringly
the father broken
the shepherd howling
the terrier dutifully keeping vigil...

retaining her beauty
even in death
vacant 
vacuum eyes
still so beautiful
she was still so damned beautiful
as she lay
limp
cold
not sleeping...

a bottle of pills
a half empty bottle of vodka
and a single word
writ large on her bedroom wall
with a black marker
no note
no rationale
just one word
“alone”

later that day
we sit in a circle in the living room
silenced
stunned
purulent 

asking
always asking
“why?” 
“how?”

The mother sobbing
“my baby, my baby”

the father
a crack running through his patrician exterior
he just groans
almost inaudible
almost imperceptible
and perhaps it was imperceptible to others
but we hear it--those of us who know him hear it
and we shudder at its sound

and for the first time I realize
that this is something I will never get over
there is no moving on
there is just simple endurance
from now on 
life isn’t lived
it is endured

and on a relentlessly cold february morning
we will bury pieces of ourselves along with her...

 

 

 

Page 3

 

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