One of the dastardly crimes often committed against women globally has caught the attention of two of Africa’s poets, Kasey Moore and Rhyme Sonny. The two have joined the teaming number of activists who wish to see this grim and dastardly display of male malevolence abated.
They have thus collaborated on ‘Wedding Rings Aren’t Boxing Rings’ a poem that chides domestic violence.
I’m on edge. He’s late again and I wonder what mood he’ll be in. Will he be drunk or sober? Happy or mad? Did he get fired again? I have no idea. I give the kids a bath and put them to bed. They sense my anxiety and cling to me while I try to settle them down. I know if they’re still up when he comes home he’ll be angry, so I’m short and impatient with them and quickly say goodnight.
I walk to the kitchen and make sure his supper is still warm. The dishes have all been washed. The laundry has all been folded. I notice that I should have vacuumed but the baby was sick and my time was limited. I’m satisfied that the house is just the way he likes it so I sit down and wait. I grab a magazine and jump when the phone rings. I check the caller ID and see it’s my brother-in-law, John. No, not now. If he walks in and I’m on the phone with John he’ll be angry. He’ll accuse me again of sleeping with him. I choose to let the answering machine get it.
Several minutes pass and I hear the car pull in the driveway. I take one last look around at the condition of the house and figure it really doesn’t matter at this point. It’s too late anyway. I peek through the curtain to watch him as he gets out of the car. I’m looking for tell-tale signs that he’s been drinking – staggering, dropping his keys, rumpled clothing. These things will let me know. He seems sober. I relax a little. But just as I hear the door open I suddenly turn to notice the blinking light on the answering machine. I forgot to delete John’s call…
© Susan Barton 2013
An oldie, but still a goodie…
You’re a coward who couldn’t be honest enough with me to tell me it was over and you had a new girlfriend. You still came over to have sex with me until you knew it was going to work out between the 2 of you and then you dropped me like a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of your shoe. At first, I fantasized about cutting off your balls and feeding them to my dogs, but then I remembered you didn’t have any balls. It’s just as well because I wouldn’t want to poison my poor dogs. Then I thought about trashing your precious car – slicing your tires, scratching the paint, etc. but realized how childish (and a little psycho) this was. Besides, I didn’t want to go to jail because I’m pretty sure you’d know it was me. At least I’m not bitter.
Unfortunately, the two of you share your little love nest in a dive apartment that just happens to be on my route to work, so I’m forced to see it every single day. However, this also provides me the opportunity to wish you dead every time I go by. Maybe my evil spell will work one day. Okay, at least I’m not bitter.
Maybe if you had given me the opportunity to have my say by having the courtesy of telling me about your new relationship yourself instead of hearing it from your Mother, I’d feel some closure. I think that’s what’s most difficult. I need closure. I need to tell you how you “ended it” was shitty and I deserved more than that after 4 fucking years. I know I need to get past all this and I’m certainly doing much better. I really do know that you were an asshole from the start and I’m much better than you. Oh, and by the way, you suck and I hope you get a painful STD and your dick falls off. Well, at least I’m not bitter
Better Than You
© Susan Barton 2013