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Poem 1981
by Christopher Crawford
Women, of course,
can forgive
almost anything. Except
if you have sex
with their sisters. Though
it’s a kind of murderous
forgiveness.
Most people are ok
with being beaten
quite severely
under the correct psychological
circumstances.
Anyways, if you break
your own nose with a clubbing
right hook, you care less about
what's on tv.
The party last night was a riot.
The room slowly filled
with breasts. Canapes became
sort of props to pose with
like cigarettes. Some of
the breasts had been noticed
and started to preen.
A curious odor entered
the room. It smelt
like an airless elementary
school classroom
on an August afternoon in 1981
where children
threw erasers and sundry
stationery goods at their peers
while their mothers stayed home
and were beaten, or watched tv
and examined their breasts
and upper arms for bruises
or made canapes.
The fathers, of course, thought about sisters:
lots of them,
stretched out on king-size beds in pretty dresses.
They tried hard, of course, to forgive themselves.
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