If only he wrote poems for <br />her like Byron did those <br />whom he knew, if only her <br /> <br />man took time to put pen <br />to paper, rather than his fist <br />to her cheek or jaw or pushed <br /> <br />her to the floor to have his way. <br />She liked the Byron book, kept <br />it by her bed or in her bag to <br /> <br />take out to read to suck the <br />words to her head. If only her <br />man had the good grace to <br /> <br />speak in such a way to make <br />her feel loved or needed, not <br />talked to like something on the <br /> <br />end of his shoe or poked about <br />till black and blue. Maybe one <br />day he will changed, she mused, <br /> <br />maybe he’ll speak to her in finer <br />tones in lovers’ words in softer <br />voice in kinder ways, as if some <br /> <br />inner fire blazed, not bellowed <br />at or cursed or punched till dazed. <br />She opened the book and read <br /> <br />her favourite lines, the words <br />caressed her, brought her joy <br />and enlightenment, not like him <br /> <br />and his dark side, violence, brutality <br />and punishment. Reading out loud <br />is difficult when her lips are swollen <br /> <br />or her bruised eyes are closed by <br />his vicious rage, then the words <br />sit silent on the open white page.<br /><br />Terry Collett<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-only-he-did/
