i said that the Indians had their culture stolen,
and then thrown away by the thieves.
She was lighting a cigarette.
she said she thought i had the wrong Idea.
there had been several bottles of wine,
and several joints.
There had even been tequila.
i leaned back and put my feet on the table.
i asked if the Indians hadn’t,
in fact,
had their culture stolen,
then promptly thrown away.
she fidgeted in the piss-stained, floral chair.
she said, “no, I can’t be your woman.”
i told her she had to leave.
i looked at my belly button.
she said she wouldn’t, just because i said it.
i had rage in my eyes.
i looked up, ready to kill.
she looked down at her belly button.
i repeated my self.
She mumbled a why.
i muttered that i could only hate her
from here on out,
so it was irrelevant
what she could and could not be.
She got up and sat next to me,
reaching for my belt.
i grabbed her arm and threw her,
off the couch, into the TV.
she crumpled into a heap.
she said she loved me.
i said i loved her, too.
i told her that she still had to go.
She asked me why,
again.
i said because she wanted to be my woman.
i took my feet off the table.
i said i would only ever kill her spirit,
suck it out and suck it dry and use it for poetry.
She said she didn’t care.
i asked her if i could use it and suck it out right now,
i asked her if she was fine with that kind of objectification.
she said she was.
i threw a glass at her head.
i hit high above the television.
she flinched.
i demanded she stand up and strip.
i told her i would call the police if she did.
She stood up, and began kicking her shoes off slowly.
i was furious.
i stood, grabbed my jacket, got the dogs
and went out to the car.
i drove to connecticut ave.,
confessed my love,
and drove back.
she was still there.
We slept together,
on the floor, exhausted.
i told her that i could never have her
because she wanted me.
i told her that I’d been cursed
forbidden to have my desire.
She left without a bra.
dangling from lamp posts,
loading shotguns under your face,
buying chains at the bait shop on the pier:
there are things easier
than certain truths.