Clubfoot Poem by Melissa Hurst

I am the mourner
sitting at the far table in the corner.

My ears hear the rustling feet
of two lovers in heat.

And I am damned to be helpless
To watch the two dance closely.

She carries him graciously with each turn
and my anger is ripe to burn.

His cheek mingles with her perfumed hair
and my heart has become too aware.

My head falls heavy upon the table
and I sob, hoping it's all a fable.

How I wish their bones would break
and their bodies become wrought with ache.