Tonight's Poet Corner: The Closet War
The Closet War
by Belinda Roddie
She hides the truth in small groups,
marching two by two, but she doesn't
actually have anything to lose. She's quick
to slip lies into the formation, the troops
as ugly a reality as a loose tooth - once
they tear away from the red line, it's all
over. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, there
is no way on God's green earth that this
facade clicks. She puts mythos in uniform
and equips her made up army with sticks,
but tricks don't have sharp blades, or bullets
that actually leave divots in burst skin.
Dishonest stories don't usually have
happy endings. She winds up spending
thousands of dollars to cover it up -
with martinis, with marriage, with children
all tucked in their rows like artillery carted
off to the next global gun show. Look how
much the veins have grown in her forehead,
spider webs of capillaries ready to blow.
And blow her cover, too. She's been having
sex with her neighbor for thirteen years,
and her husband's got his nose jammed
so far up his own Napoleon complex that he
still believes he's emperor of the world. Crammed
like sardines in cots and tents, the kids ration
out their time and money, take turns on swing sets
as if reloading on childhood joy. To see their
mother curled up with a woman, boy, that
ought to change the narrative of the war. No
blood and gore needed to make this interesting.
More and more, the truth breaks from the buddy
system. No one dares mention that they catch
each fact scaling the fence, leaving an impact,
going AWOL, going alone, scraping off stone
from walls built up so high that they can't
support their own weight. How much longer
can she debate with the voices in her head,
and the one she loves whispering, "Please,
please, please," over and over from her side
of the bed? She hid the truth in small groups,
marching two by two. Everyone would
have accepted her; what the Hell did she have
to lose? But the looks, and the expectations,
that changed her strategy. She was a general
with spastic tactics, maps drawn out in greenish
hues, screaming for the volleys of gunfire
to stop so she could hear something new.
Something like quiet. For once. While her
husband eats his stew, and her children watch
her sweat beneath her dress of blue. She knows
exactly what to do to end this battle that's been
going on for as long as the rusting of her baby
rattle. Abandoning the cavalry of lies for
something more practical: Love is truly a
battlefield, one that could break her, and truth
lovingly calls itself the honorable peacemaker.
by Belinda Roddie
She hides the truth in small groups,
marching two by two, but she doesn't
actually have anything to lose. She's quick
to slip lies into the formation, the troops
as ugly a reality as a loose tooth - once
they tear away from the red line, it's all
over. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, there
is no way on God's green earth that this
facade clicks. She puts mythos in uniform
and equips her made up army with sticks,
but tricks don't have sharp blades, or bullets
that actually leave divots in burst skin.
Dishonest stories don't usually have
happy endings. She winds up spending
thousands of dollars to cover it up -
with martinis, with marriage, with children
all tucked in their rows like artillery carted
off to the next global gun show. Look how
much the veins have grown in her forehead,
spider webs of capillaries ready to blow.
And blow her cover, too. She's been having
sex with her neighbor for thirteen years,
and her husband's got his nose jammed
so far up his own Napoleon complex that he
still believes he's emperor of the world. Crammed
like sardines in cots and tents, the kids ration
out their time and money, take turns on swing sets
as if reloading on childhood joy. To see their
mother curled up with a woman, boy, that
ought to change the narrative of the war. No
blood and gore needed to make this interesting.
More and more, the truth breaks from the buddy
system. No one dares mention that they catch
each fact scaling the fence, leaving an impact,
going AWOL, going alone, scraping off stone
from walls built up so high that they can't
support their own weight. How much longer
can she debate with the voices in her head,
and the one she loves whispering, "Please,
please, please," over and over from her side
of the bed? She hid the truth in small groups,
marching two by two. Everyone would
have accepted her; what the Hell did she have
to lose? But the looks, and the expectations,
that changed her strategy. She was a general
with spastic tactics, maps drawn out in greenish
hues, screaming for the volleys of gunfire
to stop so she could hear something new.
Something like quiet. For once. While her
husband eats his stew, and her children watch
her sweat beneath her dress of blue. She knows
exactly what to do to end this battle that's been
going on for as long as the rusting of her baby
rattle. Abandoning the cavalry of lies for
something more practical: Love is truly a
battlefield, one that could break her, and truth
lovingly calls itself the honorable peacemaker.
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