She came to me with sandbag eyes-
another night crying hurricanes of non-existent inadequacies that
could break the levies of New Orleans all over again.
I wish I could expose her to the truth,
that he is a bad impression of a man,
just a mirage of me.
She introduced him.
I stretched out my hand, but hid a fist.
I knew if I searched the notches on
his bed posts I would find her name
among the obituary of all the hearts he’s killed.
I could throw fists at him,
but instead throw words to her. Metaphors and similes like:
—Like a solider storming Omaha Beach, I can’t find a way
to storm her walls before I’m gunned down.
I break through, she invents alibis to stay.
Her very own D-Day.
When it is finally over,
when her tides of pain recede,
I am brought into her fortress,
whispering forever, trust me.
My Ethereal Enigma 