JARRING
...that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.
She was always giving him lip
these days; she used
to hold her peace, at least, he mused.
He was the pain in her neck that would
not lift; she’d left
too much too long too unsaid.
She had been a thing he could handle –
once; her new stance
was in spite of the manual.
He would shoulder her over, at
ev’ry turn; God
forbid he be less than above her.
She came with a body for flaunting;
she taunted him,
wanting him endlessly wanting.
He still tried to pull the old ‘foot down’
routine; as if
that decided all things, or should.
They were nearing breaking point when
it was given;
they held it/it held them together.
And the seams glowed, like treasure.
Carolyn Whitnall, 2015.
For those kind but poetry-unenthused near-and-dear who want to be nice but feel, in relation to the above, like the parent of a toddler who has just been presented with an eager but indeterminate drawing (is it a cat? those could be ears ... or sails ... perhaps it's ... a boat?): does this (much as it loathes me to spell it out) help?
[Image is public domain from Wikimedia Commons].
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