The Real Thing

The Real Thing

“You ain’t called in a while,” he said.

“I didn’t want to get your little ass in trouble.”

She flipped her hair with a toss of her head,

Exposing a blade of an eye.

“You ain’t gonna git my ass in trouble.”

“Oh yeah,” she nodded assuredly,

“I got enough trouble for your little ass

And my big one, and maybe the whole damn county.”

He started in on his sweet talk routine,

His smile, like the age on fine whiskey.

She rolled her eyes, though he never noticed—

Blasé, been around that one twice since.

All the while his mouth was moving,

Her body, unmoved, uninterested,

Her brain took off, and went to a place

Where she could be anything but apathetic:

Hot in the throes of her fiery dark lover,

Rolled by the muscle of strong arm extortion,

Pounded like the waves crush their burden on the sand,

Never relenting passion, not for a breath or a cessation.

Her mind replayed the image for her body and her soul:

An abiding, continuous, ingrained connection

Branded in her memory, nothing else seemed sane or whole—

Only that forbidden soiree of complete release and resignation

To the unavoidable destiny that pulled her like a moth.

Certain death and excommunication would await,

And duly did the ability to bear the white flag table cloth

Die a writhing casualty, and her facades dissimilate.

For true surrender had exposed the beauty there within,

And no one could lie to her anymore, or ever would again.

For truth had come and shone the utmost place in her Reality.

All else fell shattered at her feet, and inside it, vain disparity.

And so this boy, not knowing well what danger he approached,

Kept talking smack and feeling smug, continuing his encroach,

Was startled, when she walked away without a word of reason,

His shallow smatterings all fell flat, no apology given.

Sometimes a fire of love burns deep, making all else pale.

Purification burns the dross, to the very deepest layer.

Sometimes Truth comes and bursts in upon you,

Making the worse case seem the better.

But once it’s come, no going back

To fallacy’s hiding places.

No more pretending to be sensitive

To normal’s dreary faces.

-jenn long