When We Dress in the Morning
I want to turn my eyes away
so as not to spy the guilt
edged like a dark mold
in your surreptitious glance.
I know that what you tell your wife
is ultimately not my problem,
yet it feels as if I've struck her,
run a knife along her belly
like gutting a freshly-caught fish
I forgot to stun before I cut
into its helpless body. I want
to wash the scales, the blood, the slime
off my hands, to leave the disarray
of this anonymous room behind
and put on a clean conscience
like fresh lipstick in some neutral shade of pink.
But when you mutter something about next
Tuesday, I find I always whisper Yes.
DAMN, the imagery in this is honed sharp
elements of lust and self loathing,
trapped in that vicious cycle.
hard to read, but couldnt stop