Is This Love?

 

By

 

Stephen M. Larson

 

 

Your hand scythes

     up and down, up and down,

     flickering in the redbluegreen of

     the TV screen.

 

Flesh cracks on flesh, leaving

     redbluegreen handshadows that

     slowly fade.

 

The sharp, sweaty, alcoholic musk of

     your anger and lust reaches

     out from the next room as I

 

Creep away from the muffled sobs

     and boxed laughter

     and scamper with the rats up

     the cold steps.

 

I wonder, as the night breeze

     caresses my shivers,

Is this love?

 

Is this what his moans promised me?

Is this what his body pledged to mine?

 

I want to seize your hands with my own

     and shout, "Stop!  She's my mother!

     I love her!"

 

Instead, I draw my hands to my stomach

     to feel life fluttering,

and I wonder:

 

When he loves me,

     like you love her,

Will my own daughter love me, too?

 

 

Copyright ©2002 by Stephen M. Larson