By Marike Stucky

She listens for his motions, attentively,

but does not hear for the blare of the television.

It’s switched on

the couch

she’s nestled in the crook.

As a little girl

I listened closely as well,

but now I have seen

the things that men can do.

I feel the fear

that salted her trembling lips.

I only wanted someone to love, she tells me.

Can I climb my way out?

The voice-over keeping on

from the television

blares.

She dreams of cotton sensuality,

the kisses of gauzy puff

on her pink skin.

Oh, she squeals, I want that life!

She is the flower,

the television blares.

She is stillness

nestled

between couch cushions.

Her breath catches in her throat

when the small sounds

of his entering and exiting

blur

sadly swirling,

obscured by white noise about

Wedding dresses,

Sensuous white roses

Caressing the sweet hollow of her neck.

Waiting, waiting, waiting for him to come back.

She is the flower,

the television blares.

A sweet secret

taken from her, this freedom

even I would want to unlock

and keep for her.

She is the flower,

the television blares.