not the honeymoon or the hitherto;
but the upshot and the convalescence,
the slow, hard hauling–the heavy tow.
that crept inside like a vagrant cat;
and cast around its drawn out shadow,
the sterility of the stark, cold light;
struck against a pair of bare shoulders,
the lurid whisper of a misspent night.
the water torture of the sink;
drip by drip, the clock and its ticking,
and too much time left now to think.
Like this poem? Read more in Lang Leav's book Memories, available here.