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Donall Dempsey
Poems
Aug 17
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
Not stated
( though it’s understood )
she will not say a word
like dust
swept under a rug.
Good
Housekeeping.
His anger
ripens
into the bruise
she wears upon her skin
a jewellery
of fear
written upon pale flesh
his hieroglyph of hatred.
Love’s lustre
tarnished from the first
the tattoo
of boot and fist.
Holds her hand
under the grill
until her eyes bulge
gulls screaming overhead.
The bilge
of his vile
vomiting insults
upon her scared face.
“****...****...****”
his screams in a rut
matching each word
to each rising fist
a blow by blow
account.
He the liturgist
in the nightly rites
of violence
uglier than can be imagined.
Lilies cower
in a vase.
He the high priest
of her despair.
An ugly bruise
upon her soul.
Her eyes now
null and void
slit wrists
upon polished table tops
in a room
now sunlit...now unlit.
Written by
Donall Dempsey
Guildford
(Guildford)
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59
Jill
and
Weeping willow
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