Elke Nigro (Hamburg, Germany)

When did we start competing in our tireless,
endless marathon of accusations,
sometimes explosive, sometimes even cruel,
although not yet, devoid of hope and desire.

Each year’s harvest produced a fresh crop
of grievances, newly-employed tactics,
in an ever-increasing use of artillery
on the battlefield of our marriage.

At any cost, we played to win,
until we remembered who we were,
Husband and Wife.

The sheer madness and absurdity of it all,
the driving, shattering force of it
would sometimes have us collapse in laughter,
followed by a sweet truce, a quiet peace

before it would slowly transform itself again
into a sullen, loaded silence, destined to explode,
spewing fresh venomous life into our tired,
plaintive tales.

On the battlefield of our marriage,
we were so obviously equal in the pain
we inflicted upon each other.

And your final leaving was little more
than a wish to win.