Poetry from The Literary Review
Marital Discord
Deborah Landau
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It might be something I said, might not, but suddenly he’s my father, pressing down with the long thick hand of his will—hook, jaw, and tenderspot, and I’m thirteen, screaming words I mean and don’t mean, until even the pillows shrink, ashamed of their softness. No sensation from the waist down, so cruel I’m startled to catch sight of myself among the ruins. Beneath my wife suit I’m raw and ugly as gooseflesh. Walls clawed with soot. The furniture gone. I did this. The roof splits open. The room blues with cold. |
