by Sharon Hart

Published in Issue No. 5 ~ October, 1996

I see you clutching your fists in the hard afternoon
when the sun goes down and the ache sets in
You shuffle in your chair
As the players pound the 30 yard line.

You dont feel like talking.

I soak my hands in dishwater.
Hiding in little domestic duties.
Waiting for the lies to begin.
That insult my intelligence.

I can see your soul tear at you
Like the physical torment of your addiction.
Pulling your feet out the door.
I’m your puppet,
maneuvered, manipulated
till the little junkie slaves come knocking.

The waters grown cold
Grease coats and suffocates
. The crowd screams
As you reach for your beer
And smile towards me.

But I have learned to read into every breath,
Every movement.
You sigh and I wonder if sex might cure you.
But I know
The violence, and bashing
That comes later.
As I gently rotate the spout
I feel the warm circulating swirl
Theres a knock at the door
and I know
This time I’ll leave you.

account_box More About

Sharon Hart lives in Lawrence, KS, (Home of William S. Burrows). Originally enrolled at Boston University, she transferred to Kansas University, where she studied English Literature. Sharon Hart's work can also be seen in the on-line zine Artisan.