Shaken, Not Stirred

by Christa Forster
(in celebration/degradation of National Poetry Month.)



In the end the swivel sticks
did nothing for me, casualty
of gin. Whatever cherry darling
I believed I was betrayed
me from inside out and all
my songs were sung, my rings rung,
Fun no longer fun. Options
gone but one: trundle in
the earth. Children by the berth. 

Husband throwing dirt. Black shirt.

Now the shaking keeps me steady,
Yes, it does, dear Teddy, yes
It does. A pounding from my feet

via calves, knees, thighs,
through my cooch busts apart
large white rocks hectoring
My heart with sound-proof strategies,
diminishing returns, orgies
where no one really ever came
anyway: my mark finally clear.