I will tell you a thing or two about marriage:
it takes strong support hose, and a couple
fists in faces to drive home a point--
all knuckles look plaster white, and I know
which homes need a bitch slap tonight. Mine
is a blissful one. No need to turn on a night light,
carve anger in worn bedposts over a magazine
which reads: How’s your lover in bed?
I couldn’t begin to roll out the carpet, twenty positions
added to “make him love you forever”. He will love
me regardless of 69, the new fetal position where
my head finds itself compromising tight fits.
It’s times like these where I need a good fist,
not to be fisted red as battered eels, but pressed
in between pallor and consummation
of a marriage in opposites
from the norm.
