Featured Poet Rose Mary Boehm
A Man Has His Needs
There was a time when all I saw was your face
contorted with frustration, smelled your breath stinking
of cheap rum. Every night you passed through the hells
of the cantinas. ‘Making space’ was the word
for vomiting in situ. More rum, guapa, come,
let me feel you. The kids were too little
to know anything else, but they both stood
in front of me when you fell into the house.
You knew what you were looking for, brushed
them aside like annoying insects wiped off a sleeve....