When Garth Ass-Fucks My Soul

Garth’s a tall wide-square box man. We often argue.
His mother is Pentecostal. He was slapped around and
chain whipped, I saw the raised lightning scar
from boiling water poured on his thigh, traced the tip
of my index finger on its raised worn smoothness
in our early days when I sucked on his frost-bitten
toes, his mother having cast him into
the Ontario winter small town cold. He ate

chewed food from garbage cans, his sisters spitting
leftovers on the floor, while his mother crashed
holy roller, eat or I’m going to whup you, slashing
the air with a bicycle chain locked in the
cutlery drawer for just such fanfare and now
Garth is a tall-wide square man with a quicksilver
mind and spreading balls. His hands are like butterflies
on my hips when he takes me from behind. Sh sh

he says and sings lullabies to ease the pain. I guess
I love him for his spreading balls and the way
he places his hands on my hips, for
his orange pubic hair and his festering
love. Sometimes I want to slam him out the door
that stands like a stage set without walls, yet
he holds me, his left arm like a fallen tree
blocking roads, traffic, ongoing life.

When he drapes his left arm across my back, I duck
underneath. It’s true he’s a tall wide barrier and nothing
gets across or through. You think you got me I say, but
inside I’m fuckin’ outta here. He knows
he can’t hold me cause I’m an ex
body-builder escape artist, can’t fathom
that rage barrels down and on its exit, stops

at an en-route highway cunt with its gift shop of
memories such as Garth’s balls overlapping
his redwood thighs, his hands on my hips while
he sings his gentle ass-fucking lullabies. I know
all his secrets at least quite a few, I’ve got
the balls of a tree-stomping lumber Jack
from the north with a poet’s southern heart
and an artist’s ego. But if

he surrounds me with his unyielding arm
one more time, I think this highway cunt’s gonna
open its doors and post a sign—everything’s
on sale. How can I stay all
pissed off at a man who sings lullabies with
his big hands lying gentle on me while
he’s ass fucking my soul.

Coyright Janice Colman 2008 (Excerpt from upcoming poetry collection - Headstrong Poetry)