For The Cruel Woman Poem by RIC BASTASA

WE SIMPLY have to be honest,
do we have any choice? what do you have there?
a thick section of your
humiliation,

she keeps on putting you down
and she laughs
openly like you were the performer
with all the rotten tomatoes
as her score

what do i have here inside my pocket?

i have my fingers that keep a record
of her wrongs
and i am still writing

she is sick and dying and we wear sad faces
we are dishonest
she is saying the last words
in slow motion

and stretching her breaths
like a staccato of a song

we are the silent background
the floor of her bed
the drapes of her window
the slippers of her stinking feet

and finally

she is dead and we cry and then we wail loud enough
to be heard by the neighbors
and the servants of the house are convinced

we go through the rites of her passage
we are her heirs and our names shall not be forgotten by her
in the other world
where she watches us from the skies
with all surprise and regret

we are dancing on the grass
we are feasting in our house.