Sunday Mourning Poem by Kevin Fisher-paulson

Sunday morning, in the fireplace embers,
soot and shards of glass are all that’s left.
On a Saturday night he
twisted the knob on the door of thick wood,
holding a bottle of that cheap red
wine. He said, “I want us to break

champagne glasses. I want to break
your thin crack of lip on my member,
rub youth into your blushing red
cheek, my smooth sheath rushing to your left
mole.” He pressed my back into the wood
parquet, fumbling with my 501s. He

mumbled, “Lust.” From tortured cotton he
thrust. Then slept. At ten I made break-
fast as he showered. The bacon would
sizzle, the slather of butter on the toast remember
the parlay the night before. But he left
before the omelet cooked read-

y, before the French roast coffee was read-
y By Monday, the grease on the bacon congealed. He
had never whispered, wondered. I was left
with eggs uneaten, my own private break
down. Wrenched and wretched, I remember
what should have bound, what would

have held. We withdrew to our husbands. He wooed
his while I found dull red
in well-known arms. September
turned too thick. Either me or he
came far too quick. For his sake I brake
at the risk. I turned out right. He turned left.

The theft of thighs had left
his eyes. I had no choice. I would
never again feel nipples ache, the break
between the cheeks of his taut brown whose red
no longer spread before me like Twin Peaks. He
did not speak, would never seek November.

We would speak instead of pumpkin cheesecake, and I dread
the pinochle and leftover lasagna and the wink he
gives his partner, which never breaks, which forbids me to remember.