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The Air Crumbles

 





The Air Crumbles



The air crumbles
as he closes the office door.

Turning, he pins you
like a butterfly to velvet.

His voice the only soft thing about him,
his cologne a sharp sting of spice.

If he were your husband, it would be no better:
you are the target, the trophy, a conquest too easy.

Helpless, your voice to protest lost
in his power, his very destruction of the air.

Slow spider approach, he draws near.
Strokes, strokes strands of your hair, then holds you there.

The kiss, lingering as venom, just as deadly.
A whisper, then a murmur; a promise, then the thrust.

You are his today, and you will be again, again, again
until you can fully breathe again.

 

Michael A. Griffith

 

Michael A. Griffith teaches at Raritan Valley and Mercer County Community Colleges in central NJ. He is the author of three chapbooks of poetry, Bloodline; Exposed; and New Paths to Eden. Two of these, Bloodline and Exposed, are available in eBook format from Soma Publishing. Mike facilitates a monthly poetry workshop for the Princeton Public Library and is a board member of the Delaware Valley Poets/US 1 Poets. Recent work appears in Ariel Chart, Haiku Journal, Kelsey Review, North of Oxford, Page & Spine, and the anthology book Floored

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2 Comments

  1. i know the type.

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    Replies
    1. I'm very sorry to read that, Eve, but I'm thankful you read my poem.

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