What Love?

What love, my love?
Old photos staring back at her
Chiseled cheekbones, empty.
Face devoid- waiting, waiting.
Manicured hands on oiled picture
Calmly wring and begin to wreak,
Ripping it into pieces as knees fall-
The rug isn’t soft enough for bare limbs
Sweet flirty skirt contraries her emotion.
She kneels emotionless before the storm.

Sudden raw scream makes him leap back,
The ache made worse by the infidelity
Surprising violence without ladylike grace
Photos tearing, letters ripping, his hands
On hers- she flinches back as if they burn
He holds her, her violence is contained
Explosion beating against six-inch steel
She screams eternally without audience,
The fury scars her throat- forever after
Her voice is quieter and better contained.

But she knows (she’s foolish) it’s not over
Stubborn to the end, to madness as he-
Grabs her arms and pleads his love
“Love!” She scoffs.  “What love?”
She punishes him as best she can,
With laughter- manic, raw, wild giggles
Reflect only the insanity that claimed her.
A straightjacket fits better than this-
Her anniversary garments of loveliness.
Face marred by self-hate and rage,
She grabs his collar and stares into him,
“What, love?” She demands, not knowing
The answer- his denials, her reaffirmation

A letter in her hand from the mistress.
She shakes it at him, he grabs her close
It is best now that the house is abandoned
No one is there to hear her screaming-
Advantage would have been taken,
Had not she received this letter.  Written
In curly script and professing truths
Suspected in thought but never believed.
She crumples with the weight of words,
Naked knees rug burn on rough carpet.
“What…” She sobs into her hands.  “Love.”

He stands for a moment and takes her
Cruel lithe arms hateful, deceitful-
She wonders how those arms rippled-
When he made love to the Other Woman.
Her body is enraged once more, she kicks,
Misses intentionally.  She hates it! Hates him!
Even in her deepest fury, burning anger,
She cannot bring herself to hurt him-
What saint is she, that remembrance,
Keeps her aggression so well contained?
She can’t swear at him. All she can whisper,
“What love?” His answer is…lacking.

She fights back, not for the last time.
As he struggles to keep her quiet, silent-
But all this time, she enraged ravaged-
His face has been devoid.  Empty.
Not even the ripped photos at his feet
Give him pause.  He doesn’t step light-
And he walks on her.  What love?