But His Woman (or: Green is not the Color of Jealousy)
He’s a complicated man but no one understands
him but his woman.
Even sans pronoun, his ownership’s implicit.
Always mine. Never hers. God forbid the collective.
Every object he lays his hands upon: Animal,
vegetable, mineral. Ten questions: Is it woman?
I spy: White car (that he bought) in parking lot
of motel he’d never get caught dead in. Second question:
Is it lying on a dirty bed? I spy: Curtains drawn
and Do Not Disturb sign on knob. Third question:
Are its legs spread? The games like his possessions
blend together at this point. Backlit, shadows kiss,
door open. Unlocked. Can it sense the slightest
movement? Full moon, too bright. Can it hear
him breathing? Hard. Red. Everything is red.
A hunting knife reflects light. Is it still alive?
Body of woman, like a deer, slit open: His.