Young women say they do, when they don’t.
They just do what they do, unmindful
that their words and wistful deeds
fall as guillotine blades on
equally naïve necks.A grown boy playing
man/head of household—throwing
his weight-like intention around, wanting
meat, eating his Wheaties, feeling his oats, taking
his place at the chopping block of marriage—could
easily push any insubordinate chickee to the point
of pulling the rope on him. Ssssssslank! That sound
of falling metal, too late to stop and reconcile.She wasn’t really
an executioner in heart (was he?)
and after all these years,
she pondered, he was
hopefully (his neck /young men are resilient)
not broken (like her hymen/forever shriveled)
irreparably.