Saturday, January 31, 2009

the last night

she’s gonna pay
he promised,
the TV screen gone to coloured bars, the only sound
the kitchen clock, frenetic
him listening for her key in the lock
fists clenching,

laughing, she hugged her friend goodnight
call me tomorrow, honey
watched her tipsy, awkwardly
sit back in the cab, head pounding
from the dance hall music, a bit of toilet paper
still stuck to the heel of her sparkly shoe

she keyed herself in, lurched
up the steps to her apartment, one hand
on the wall of the grimy stairwell
to keep steady
longing to puke, pull off these damn tights
fall into bed and sleep,
curled up like a cat
around her pillow

Rachel Westfall
January 31, 2009


Karen said...

I get great visuals from this. And the foreboding of his being there waiting is chilling when juxtaposed with her carefree, careless demeanor. Good stuff.

Meandering Michael said...

Wow. Good one.

christopher said...

Holy cow, this is strong stuff. There's a whole story unspoken. Way good, that.

RachelW said...

Glad this one worked for you three. Karen, I like that word foreboding. That's what I was feeling about this scenario, and you put your finger right on it.

Poetikat said...

Oh, they don't call them "tights" for nothing, do they?
So, will there be a part IV or are you leaving that solely to our imagination? Reads like a good mystery.


RachelW said...

I couldn't write part IV. I just couldn't do it, though I tried.

This one actually fits well with a series of poems I've written exploring issues around violence against women; the label "see how she runs" collates them all.