a poem a day for a year #61

by Amy Turn Sharp


one time you tore your shirt open
towards the lake
where the boats were tied down
with ropes
where old men fished with Coleman coolers

you ripped it open in anger
all dramatic like
buttons popping and your young hairless chest
small like a kid
just there and glaring white
and what the hell were you so mad about
back then in the sunshine sing along glory days
you were not even dead yet
you were so alive with blood and hot pant sex and hunger
and we could drive for days on big cheap tanks of gas
and the world never punched us in the gut yet
and the world never gave us no lip

I forget what made you so mad at me that day
in the spring when you feigned tough against the landscape
when you practiced macho by the water
so what if I didn't love you
I kissed you like the movies didn't I?
I opened my mouth and bit you a little with my giant teeth
I gave you my heart the only way I knew how
in slices and dices and pieces so small
that no one would want them anyways
I gave you my heart like tough cowgirl
like a angry woman
screaming into a bottle

And someday in the future this woman washes windows and the sun hits the hills like a diamond heart attack and she can't stop thinking about lakes and angry young men and the way she wants to rip open her blouse and tell the world everything.