A warm and blustery wind from the south
has caught me full on my mouth
and turned to red and black and blue
a cheek that once shone white for you.
I wanted a single room apart,
but you demanded all my heart.
What you asked I gave for free,
withholding nothing, me to thee.
On flat stomach and virgin mons
ran delving fingers and oily palms;
with slavering lips you took what’s yours
and left me grunting on all fours.
You say I chose, got trinkets for
(which makes me free, though just a whore).
It can’t be rape, your lawyers state:
my marriage vows will exculpate.
But we possess in equal skeins
the time before us, when the pains
we’ve buried will rise up, blast forth,
and send a chill gust from the north.
(I had considered calling this “NAFTA” but changed my mind.)