Pulp Flesh under Fist

When a woman was wronged, her man left
to exact justice by the physical exertion of his will.
He would pulp flesh under fist.
He would kill.
Her fury was funneled through him,
imagining his wrath and
his savagery as the extension
of her own will.
Together they were strong.

Humanity has found it necessary to make the units of power
weaker, so the whole
can be collectively stronger
and more savage.
A modern funnel for a nation
of passive men and women
to pour their fury and frustration into:
the state.

Men used to fill the imaginations of women.
Men were the sword of the family.

Men lost a role in the family, protector.
Women lost a concrete and constant
reason to honor her man, protection.
Every step of civilization has reduced,
the family, in favor of
the state.

We went from the swords of the family
to the iron ore of the state,
being pounded, daily
into the service
of a common fate.

I still dream of pulping flesh under fist,
of righteous slaughter,
of my woman funneling her will through me,
of blood on my hands and clothes,
and of her picking up these clothes
and carefully washing the blood out of them,
while smiling at me with
open respect and love
leaving me ready,
primed,
eager;
to do anything needful.

Cry

Cry.
When I go, I hope you cry for me for years
And a lifetime.
When you hear my voice,
Or feel me familiar
I hope it kills you—
With me.
Scream and growl.
Wail and sob-on alone in your home.

Once, I made a delivery to a stranger. From the walk, I heard a woman inside yelling, roaring, and sobbing. I stood a few feet from the door before I announced my presence. The sound was so beautiful and passionate. She howled and bellowed words I couldn’t understand. She sang out in anguish and it was a feast and a symphony. She made me feel the pain. I felt the urge to cry with her, and then I pushed the glowing yellow dome. She took several minutes to gather herself, but I held patient—out of courtesy to the suffering. A Hispanic woman came to the door. She was middle aged, neat and pretty, with tied-up large curled black locks falling off her head. You’d never guess that moments before, she was in the grips of a fit of passion, mourning and screaming out for the lost. The dead.