Poem-a-Day

When you are a woman attracted to men, you may
fall in love with a person who promised he’d return
to his lover’s hospital bed, but never did;
was advised by his father: Your first screw
should have nothing to do with love; had a mother
who, in one way or another, could not nurse him;
swore on something holy, a scripture, his grandmother’s
grave, that he wouldn’t do it again; has cheated
and been cheated on; used his knee
to open a woman’s legs and took the absence of  no
as an asking, a yes; said they could have
other children just not this one
and dumped her after the abortion; wants
to slaughter the other team; is addicted to being
on top; is addicted to getting high; learned to harden
heartbreak into spikes; was taught to hurt himself
last and others first, as if it were possible
to bruise without getting bruised;
remembers the shame that poured
from inside him like sweat staining the pits
of a white undershirt; who, like you, bears a wound
that, after all this time, carries on with its weeping;
who likes the sound of the word  bully,
not what it means, but its music; who rings
your doorbell and carries behind his back
a bouquet of tiger lilies, all but one closed tightly.