Sunday, June 16, 2013

Cuffed

I realized I have tons of poems that I haven't posted on here. Maybe I'll work on posting them. We'll see. Anyway, here's a poem that started out in a document titled "Don't Get Married At 18." I think it's kinda about my frustration with this whole Mormon dating scene where marriage is on the table after the first date. Maybe it's just about how I'm not ready to get married and I think it's absurd that I even have to say that; of course I'm not ready to get married. At any rate, here it is.

Cuffed


At the time,
you said it didn’t matter
that you weren’t old enough
to buy the champagne for your own wedding

because that ring was the nicest thing you’d ever owned
and it sure didn’t look like handcuffs to you.

At the time,
you said it didn’t matter
that you wanted to be an actress
because you believed in jumping into these things.

Now, you’ve been “Mark’s Mrs.” longer than you’ve been
“you,” and at the moment, you’re tired of the part.
Your voice isn’t big like it used to be, and it’s only
reading the damn scriptures in the damn bathtub
every morning that gets you through it.

You tell Mark you feel like a rag
that’s been twisted and twisted and twisted

and snapped to shreds. Because when he
asked you to pray
you whispered Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
and when he cut out your tongue
you emptied your breath, too –

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