in courtships there is a time fleeting but full,
taken as a measure of the spirit you’re with:
Some hear angels whisper when he speaks, some
welcome forever watching sunsets in his arms, some
catch disquiet in a glare, and some
promised soft music and cuddling, wham!
Find he had something different in mind.
She cups her jaw, and asks the omniscient ref:
Did. that. really. happen?
Where was the sign?
Open. Eyes. Open!
Er, but here comes a kiss . . .
Control that shiver. Show no fear, woman!
That’s his introduction to cuddling, is it?
What do I do?
I’m a punching bag
What do you do? an inner voice echos:
You could deal with it like those trendy pages of grey —
Though Grey explained himself first, with contract . . . This one,
hmm, rich, too. And luck has it his ringed pinky chose you, honey.
What? You don’t buy that?
Well, to some, Missie, consent need not be given; it’s taken, and
taken for granted given your post-punch cuddling. Besides,
which man can forfeit power God so carefully built in?
Look in that court house on Queen, little lady,
the theatre of due process is trying to prove:
Love a man’s hands, and love you do
the possibility his magic fingers might
one day aid in a serenade, and one day,
perhaps the next minute —
you never know till you’re in it — one day
those same hands aid in your sexualized brutality.
You can pray for a good judge,
re-write the law
convene a special court
wear cardboard signs, or
as I was saying,
Deal! Because that’s what they’ll tell you anyway
as they force you to re-live that time you missed the signs.