Dysfunctional relationships aren’t nearly as fun
as they seem in the movies. No wacky sidekicks
cracking wise or hilarious hijinks begging
to ensue. It’s just me in this tiny cell. A rusty
lock. The jailer off polishing his exhausted
gun. Evenings spent watching you grind
calluses off sour toes. Double dates with Jen
and her expensive husband who only talks about cars.
Sure, there’s the sex. Precise and formal
as a bris. My flesh present, rhythmically
thumping or getting thumped, brain screaming
after the one that got away like an owl hunting
on a well-oiled night. Wings flapping
beside milk saucer eyes. Beak clutching
a single brass key.