A Note to the One Before Me
I'll bet you cried when you left him
in that loaded down Buick
bound for the city.
Now you're out there:
soaring into endless
open space full of strangers
who don't care where you came from,
who you left behind,
who he is, or me,
whether we shiver, sweat, cry
or make love on your forsaken
rattling bed with the tulip sheets you chose
now scarred by my bleeding.
I imagine you gazing through
glittering glass at beautiful things
while the salesclerk suggests
red dresses, hot little numbers
to shatter the ice
he smothered you under.
He's becoming distant,
moving more slowly
while the days shrink and darken.
Brown husks battered by wind,
pumpkins rotting on doorsteps,
puckering, full of hungry ants.
These barren walls beg
for femininity, frames, flowers.
Your footsteps haunt the hardwood floors,
tip-toe up the stairs.
Every moment, an invisible presence,
a constant reminder of the temporary nature of this love--
of any love.
Victoria Jane Bennett earned a degree in
creative writing from Eastern Illinois University and has
recently returned with much verve to expressing herself through
poetry. When she's not lost in literary pursuits, she is
thoroughly involved in her second passion: theater.