Back Seat

Days later, she could still feel

the bruise at the base of her skull

from the repetitive shoving of the loving

he gave her just before she left.

 

She poked it – never a masochist, though this 

made her feel live and dangerous

like a felled power line.

 

He had this outrageous white boat

of a car that he named Big Bertha – burgundy

cloth seats with bits of foam peeking out for a look

of the way they tore into each other.

 

He buried his face in her neck and she had to wonder

if the pressure he applied was to make her feel

or to keep him from doing so.

 

The rut rut rutting of Shakespeare floated

up through the ether of her high school education, wondered

what they were trying to accomplish beyond self

importance, annihilation, fixation.

 

The tail lights faded away a mere 24 minutes after

he leaned back, with a gush of air between those lips, swollen

a bit from her ferocity (she strove to be ferocious).

Nothing any larger or smaller than all of her had been given

and gotten – nothing more or less than the bruise

was left.