We talked divorce all afternoon,
but quietly, without remorse.

I grinned. She smiled, and said, Okay.
We fucked—well, we had intercourse.

I zip her dress. She knots my tie.
We're both prepared for our big lie,

that to our marriage we're enslaved:
Perfect, emotionless. Behaved.

Survivor Poetry Contest
Trigger 25, Poet's Choice (Nonce Form)

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bypushkine© 0 comments/ 1921 views/ 0 favorites

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