The maniac screams.
Her lips touch my face.

Her palm presses madly
at the back of my neck,
squeezes my collar and jerks
me in neurotic movement.

She tempers. She fusses.
She tells me no one will love me

the way she tries to do;
she tells me it’s alright to cry.
Cry, baby, she coddles;
she rises. She bends her voice

over and my insides vibrato.
She drags her larynx out

beneath the lights.
Come on, baby, her mouth
wraps lyrics in the hiss
of Southern Comfort

and the sweltering prick
of poppies. She pulls me in

and yanks me from my stance,
both at once. She hurls raucous
and rough like swallowing
grind, like wood heel against grit,

against hurt and fret.  
Her rumblings burst out.

Her spit stings my metal.
Her eyes and skin wad and jam.
She’s rocking, cradling my coolness
in her hot, wet hands.

Come on, come on, honey,
cry, cry… baby.

(Originally published in Utah Sings: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry by the Utah State Poetry Society, 2015.) 

Trish Hopkinson has always loved words—in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. Trish is co-founder of a local poetry group, Rock Canyon Poets. She is a project manager by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow her poetry adventures at http://trishhopkinson.com/