She wishes his fingers didn’t taste of bleach
when he shoves them down her throat,
and that he would dress as sharply
without word of a funeral.

And he, embodiment of an ideal
which isn’t hers, after all this time,
has no wishes. He has thrown enough
coins into the well, and after them, teeth.

La. La. La. Such a tired, monotonous song
is playing on the radio, sounding like
something sicked up to face this
new world, made of puzzles,
chewing gum in spit pools,
and photocopy couples
all wanting to be

Sick of sex and the contact of conversation,
of drinking from His and Hers mugs, of
glasses and crockery from people only
interested, really, for the artisan cake,
they fall back on the bed to choke
each other. Lose consciousness,
lose the game, and the trail of
thought that wonders if, if, if
maybe this isn’t everything
or really, anything at all.

Picking scabs just to watch the blood
coursing down over their hands,
they box each other across to
opposite corners, turn
their backs, and
pretend, just
for a time,
that they are alone.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017