We made love on a bed of nails. You told me I'd be a great poet, that The Paris Review would fly me to Paris (where else?) and put me up in the best hotel so I could do a solo reading to launch their next thousand issues and there would be a publisher there that would hear me and, and, and, you get the point.
I was naive. You said that I said The Parsnip Review, which is a blog with gardening tips. They published something you sent them under my name that made no sense. I know it's all relative but really, that's got to be a low even for you.
I remember the nails were rusty. I got my shots after and submitted my poem "Rust Fever" to the Virginia Quarterly Review and Ploughshares. I'm hopeful, but concerned what a yes might mean. You really have a habit of getting your hands in everything, don't you? Or should I say hooves? Ha, you fucking loser, who the hell has hooves!
I remember you actually made the joke: Don't worry I'll be gentle, and I realized you were a fucking cliché and that I could change how much power you had over me. See, every marriage has its machinery and I've got your number Mr. 666.
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar: