|"Chains" by Nicholas Tarling|
Imitations of love admit to us the eternal, twisted longing.
Recall the dark shape of my once sweet lover
who conveyed to me from his double-jointed mind
that I was sick for delving knee-deep, but the fervor
was cavernous— I was zombie to its command until
the rain confounded me one quiet morning, strapped in
that moment. Allegations: lightening struck,
his body lunged, and I, like flying paper in the wind
found myself pressed against someone’s window
far above, with clenched throat.
My beautiful aficionado who once held me silently
reached into my womb to see who had
been in me. Now fumbling for his shoes,
I am anesthetized. A slammed door.
I cannot dig myself up. Tormented by thrusting
steel machinery—a nurse in the sterile room says
just the thought scars.