Poem 4.
Joseph Altamore
[A Lost Metaphor]
he
didn’t really ever
hit us
there was the occasional
push
or shove, the spit
in the face
but for
a man with
anger that weakened
the pillars of hell,
he was surprisingly in control
he did, however, have a
weapon of choice:
a cold glass of
water
she would
cry, scream, cry, scream,
and all at once
he would pounce upwards
out of
his desk
the couch
their bed
she always
knew
where he was going
“don’t you dare, you fucking
bastard! don’t you fucking
dare”
but he had already made it
to the sink
by then
as the terrible
water
shot out of the nozzle
it was as if
he was a demigod
of sorts
as if
he had channeled the
powers of
poseidon
as if
all of the elements
of nature collectively
rallied for him:
“smite thy woman, albert!”
and he would
chase her
while the food was cooking
chase her
while the morning news was playing
chase her
while the phone was ringing
and that
water
was no longer
water
that water was
truth serum, love potion
sulphuric acid
whatever he desired it
to be
but for
her
it was just
mean
—–
Joseph Altamore is an emerging poet from Rockford, IL. His work is usually prose style poetry. He has been writing for four years but only very recently decided to submit his work for publishing. So far, he has been published in an online publication named Dead Snakes.
