Monday 16th May 2011, A. Palmer
That was just the first
of many slurs slung my way
like lexical dinner plates.
“Parsimonious” struck the door frame.
“Clandestine” knocked her grandmother’s
St Albans mug from its shelf.
“Laconic” caught my elbow.
Fury always brought her most impressive
vocabularic cannons out, almost as if
part of her battle strategy
to coerce me into eating humble pie
saw her first swallowing
(or consuming, devouring, ingesting)
It was only when she paused
to reload, or put
hand to head and begin to sob-
dreadful, delicate, defeated tears-,
did I offer a word of my own.