Howard Firkin
She says, The time comes when we all escape
the tyranny our hearts inflict on us.
Most manage with a minimum of fuss,
but you enjoy submitting to self-rape.
The rape as well, of course. You’re doubly sick.
She calls that insight, but I understand
the disrespectful way I’ve come to treat
her; so I stand and listen to her bleat—
the rosemary and knife are both to hand—
when something’s over, better that it’s quick.
She watches unconcernedly and waits
to see who’s getting less and who gets most.
It’s Sunday night. I carve and load the plates.
There’s nothing comforting about a roast.
