WE SIMPLY have to be honest, <br />do we have any choice? what do you have there? <br />a thick section of your <br />humiliation, <br /> <br />she keeps on putting you down <br />and she laughs <br />openly like you were the performer <br />with all the rotten tomatoes <br />as her score <br /> <br />what do i have here inside my pocket? <br /> <br />i have my fingers that keep a record <br />of her wrongs <br />and i am still writing <br /> <br />she is sick and dying and we wear sad faces <br />we are dishonest <br />she is saying the last words <br />in slow motion <br /> <br />and stretching her breaths <br /> like a staccato of a song <br /> <br />we are the silent background <br />the floor of her bed <br />the drapes of her window <br />the slippers of her stinking feet <br /> <br />and finally <br /> <br />she is dead and we cry and then we wail loud enough <br />to be heard by the neighbors <br />and the servants of the house are convinced <br /> <br />we go through the rites of her passage <br />we are her heirs and our names shall not be forgotten by her <br />in the other world <br />where she watches us from the skies <br />with all surprise and regret <br /> <br />we are dancing on the grass <br />we are feasting in our house.<br /><br />RIC S. BASTASA<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-the-cruel-woman/
