"Forgotten Fault Lines"
Roger Wayne Eberle
Two Tuesdays have passed
since our grim anniversary, and now
it is hump day again, and you
still swear the glass
is half empty, and I keep pouring.
Like the monsoon,
I won't quit.
Tears move you alright.
Still you stay, statuesque.
lines parallel my
rock solid alibis.
I am still bursting
in on the scene in full cry,
gull-like, hovering on the wind,
a little at sea, a little beach-bound,
indecisive as a brushfire,
twice as volatile.
Bonding was never easy with you:
locking lips as chancy as a slow dance.
Back seat bump and grind, a tourniquet,
embracing to discard with pleasure.
I can still hear my awkward silences lingering,
nicotine stains of nepenthe
washing over the fingers of my mind
as they strangle dark thoughts
into paroxysms of blinding rage.
I was never there.
I still do not see you in his arms,
do not hear you lying stiller
than stone, do not
feel the lash of your fault lines
across the San Andreas contours
of my broken back, and I tremble
not a whit
to think what storms
my calm may conjure.