The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Bruce Bennett
Sometimes you were a tigress; you were jealous.
You thought I harbored women by the score.
You searched for clues; you hunted. Overzealous,
you pounced. "Who was that blond girl by the door?"
I laughed. I told you, "I don’t even know her!"
I thought it cute and charming. You were mad;
mad in both ways. As if I had the power
to have so many women. True, I had
you, and you were a most impressive conquest:
big game I'd bagged, I wasn't quite sure how.
And then, to be the subject of an inquest:
I felt enhanced. I guess I strutted. Wow.
I must be something. Innocent, the cause
of causeless rage, I'd joke about your claws.
The Warmth and Ride
The warmth and ride when everything was clear
and you were you and I was simply me,
the prospect fair as far as we could see,
with hope beside us, all we had to fear
behind, or else in front of us so far
it did not need attending, how could we
not feel that we had somehow happily
escaped? What if our kingdom was a car?
We had each other wholly, hand in hand,
the world outside a fantasy, a blur,
a puzzle we wouldn’t need to understand.
Whatever might be waiting to occur
would wait forever. Surely we were blessed!
That happened once or twice. We know the rest.
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