You Really Killed That ’80s Love Song
Now someone else is kissing him
on a wrought iron balcony
above a karaoke bar,
and it’s not animal,
exactly, not pretty either,
the drunken howling behind you
as you act like you’re not watching,
like you’re talking on the phone
on a wet, Texas night
instead of doing
what you should have done before.
Now it’s raining harder.
Now you’re driving home at 2 a.m.
on a road that’s slick as sex
and you can still hear your friend David
saying there’s no way you could be
in love if you’ve never been loved
in the first place.
Now you’re curled in bed.
Now the sun drifts to your knees.
Now you’ve discovered
humiliation is physically painful:
the crown-like stigmata of a peach
that’s been twisted, pulled open
and left there. The juices must run somewhere.
You can’t help but imagine the knife in his body,
her body, the pink, cloudy aubade
you were waiting for.about the author