by Daphne M. Rivers
Lothario, Lothario,
poor boy being flung about,
by a two-foot terror in white ribbons.
He keeps a smile all the while,
with pounding fist and parted lips,
She beats that pretty face till it cracks then gives.
Spoiling her Sunday best as She stoops in the dust,
in cotton dress baptized in tinctures of red,
She severs his playful extremities,squeezing his head,
pries it loose and leaving him unmade.
Keep smiling, young Capricorn,
smile while She screams.
Just the two all alone together,
in the only child’s church, where
empty swings sway in the breeze,
Father’s watchful eyes close, this is hallowed ground
where the trees are minarets and the grass won’t grow.
Poor boy, his armor, shield, and sword lay gleaming,
discarded in the sand,
Naked and confronted with godly rage – a toddler’s rage,
Lothario says nothing, does nothing,
he won’t say “I love you” like the box says he should,
he won’t hug and kiss like it says he can,
She sang to him and he didn’t dance,
Poor girl, She had a dream, and he didn’t give a damn.
Gnarling baby teeth, saliva spraying,
swollen eyes, wet cheeks
fingernails grating plastic, breaking, and bleeding
She wages war on his indifference,
Keep on screaming.
Ananse the Writer 