Catherine Strisik

Issue #
September 6, 2013


It is the man, his whiskered
face that scrapes against my own.
He is not himself, I know.

It is the mistress
disease itching at the man.

I hate it.
I hate its molestation,
its grasp on his calf, its
blood pressure −
its peacock pulse.

Climbing Long Canyon,
this fine frisson
of marriage, our plunging
murmur of union −

What holds and holds and then is clotted into wilderness?

Not even my voice
can call him.

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