And She Likes The Way He Says Baby
She likes the way he makes love to her.
Ride my cock baby, he says, as he rolls over and pulls her on top.
She likes the way he critiques her writing.
Baby, this is magnificent. Superb. Tour de force, he says.
But baby, I made just a few edits.
She likes the way he scolds her.
Baby, don’t post your poems on that blog.
Baby, I don’t ever want to hear you say you’ve failed again.
What’s a matter with you baby? You’re a star, baby, a star.
Baby, he says, don’t ever say you weren’t good enough.
Your children owe you respect, baby.
They owe you respect.
She likes his thick, Brooklyn accent.
Doll, he says, come sit on me.
She likes when he argues with her about politics.
Baby, I used to be a political reporter, he says.
Baby, you’re like every other idealistic liberal out there.
Come out of the rain, baby.
Step into the light, baby.
Politics aren’t ideal; politics are pragmatic, baby.
You idealistic liberals will ruin the party, baby.
It’ll be your fault come November, doll.
She likes the clucking, soothing tone he takes
when she reports over the phone
that she is sick.
Oh honey, oh sweetie, he says, if I were there,
I’d slip chicken soup down
your hot throat
and bang that bug right out of you.
But he is crazy as a loon.
Stays up late at night,
imagines bugs in his bed,
crawling on his skin.
Can’t sleep.
Can’t write.
Sits on his couch, covered with plastic
and listens to the pounding beat of his heart
the raspy draw of his breath.
She calls, from across a thousand miles.
How are you, baby, she asks.
Not so good baby, he says. Not so good.
But what do I have to complain about?
I can always think of you baby. He he he.
From a distance, she remembers that years ago,
his laugh would have made her skin crawl.
And probably would now too, if she bothered to care.
He he he.
Thank god he lives across the country, she thinks.
Thank god they are not banging each other any more.
But she wants him, she wants him.
And once more
picks up the phone
dials his number.
Hey, baby, she says. How are you?
Ride my cock baby, he says, as he rolls over and pulls her on top.
She likes the way he critiques her writing.
Baby, this is magnificent. Superb. Tour de force, he says.
But baby, I made just a few edits.
She likes the way he scolds her.
Baby, don’t post your poems on that blog.
Baby, I don’t ever want to hear you say you’ve failed again.
What’s a matter with you baby? You’re a star, baby, a star.
Baby, he says, don’t ever say you weren’t good enough.
Your children owe you respect, baby.
They owe you respect.
She likes his thick, Brooklyn accent.
Doll, he says, come sit on me.
She likes when he argues with her about politics.
Baby, I used to be a political reporter, he says.
Baby, you’re like every other idealistic liberal out there.
Come out of the rain, baby.
Step into the light, baby.
Politics aren’t ideal; politics are pragmatic, baby.
You idealistic liberals will ruin the party, baby.
It’ll be your fault come November, doll.
She likes the clucking, soothing tone he takes
when she reports over the phone
that she is sick.
Oh honey, oh sweetie, he says, if I were there,
I’d slip chicken soup down
your hot throat
and bang that bug right out of you.
But he is crazy as a loon.
Stays up late at night,
imagines bugs in his bed,
crawling on his skin.
Can’t sleep.
Can’t write.
Sits on his couch, covered with plastic
and listens to the pounding beat of his heart
the raspy draw of his breath.
She calls, from across a thousand miles.
How are you, baby, she asks.
Not so good baby, he says. Not so good.
But what do I have to complain about?
I can always think of you baby. He he he.
From a distance, she remembers that years ago,
his laugh would have made her skin crawl.
And probably would now too, if she bothered to care.
He he he.
Thank god he lives across the country, she thinks.
Thank god they are not banging each other any more.
But she wants him, she wants him.
And once more
picks up the phone
dials his number.
Hey, baby, she says. How are you?
posted by Bird | 9:14 PM
6 Comments:
what's new?
i don't like this poem any more - or at least, not nearly as much as i did yesterday. there's something not quite right about, something missing....
hah!
but what else is new?
flap/flap/flap
I love how it starts, but I guess I am not in the mood for a non-happy ending...you are such an amazing poet, and your voice in your poetry is enough to get you published...I hope you are sending your work out?
"Baby" better go find someone else to be his mother..you deserve better.
love your writing, you got me angry.
My initial reaction was..."Not again!" And then, "Phew." He's across the country. Not a sad ending.
TN:
Yeah... Hmmmm.... I've read this through now I don't know how many times, and I don't like the change in tone and content halfway through - it needs to be something different. It's not just that you're not in the mood for an unhappy ending, it's something else ... the poem changes direction, which is fine - but it changes clumsily...And I am quite complimented by your comments. Thanks for the encouragement!
Polly -
Got you angry? Glad the poem evoked emotion from you - but remember - it is fiction! ;)
Anon,
Are you the same anon that commented on a past poem - and I responded - something to the effect that you seemed familiar?
Cause ya do. Who are you?
flap/flap/flap
(this bird is too lazy to sign in to comment on her own blog - SWOOOOSH!)
Hmmm - Brooklyn accent? Sounds like this rube works for the Howard Stern Show. But that could be a good thing too.
C
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