Always Messing with them Boys
Jessica Helen Lopez             


Surely I can hold onto this delicious Sunday
arch and curl my back into the patch of sunlight
streaked with clarity and sobriety across my bed.

Breaking the barrier of such dirty windows,
grey with misgivings is a full dayfs work.

The dog lies languid atop my head breathing
hot air into my ears as, panty-clad,
I hunch over my poetry and sip at my tepid soup.

Sunday is seen without
the veil of finely netted
misgivings, red-veins popping
at the corner of glassy eyes.
The kohl-rimmed guilt
of late-night transgressions
does not fetter the mind.

When you consider
what I have left behind
this Sunday does not
seem so meandering
compared to the usual
reverie of madness.

I have been busy
Ignoring the corner of ashy pubs
the crooked steps back to the car
the fumbling of foil rubber wrapper

Last night, somewhere, there is
a bar room of ghost pirates

chains clatter and pints still
swill like the madness of marauders.
Barstools clank and smash over heads,
in some dirty bathroom mirror
the women wink their red-hot
cigarette eyes into their
reflections of nothingness,
spend fast money or
the money of fast men.

The night is wicked
fast on my trail
waiting for Sunday
to wreak its havoc,
The barrage of reprisal
banging at my head ?
The strange man-shaped
lump at the side of my bed,
groans and shifts the stink of
his weight towards me

Clattering, the night haunts my
day and faintly I see through the
bottom of a foggy beer mug the
skinless ghosts and lipless smiles,
shiny teeth polished to the bone

These new Sundays are
delicious and precarious
guarded, tentatively instead
I take up with the dog

Deliriously happy he is,
my new little husband
I have been gone a long time,
my dear hearted one

Without wine or spirit
but with a fearful welcome
of such a fine, upstanding
Sunday morning.

The last remnants of peace
my last fragmented chance.