The Quarrel

Words hurling
Daggers, swords and sharper weapons
At any exposed flesh
Any shameful moment
Summoned from the past
To cower in the light of day
A quarrel drawn out
For hours
Erupting steadily
Through the call of dusk
A slam of door,
A rev of engine

Then, only silence.

A quiet night in a bed silent on one side
A pillow wet with anger, hatred…
But forgiveness, regret
As the dawn sprawls its dominance
On another day.

On your way now
To apologise
To make up
To start afresh
Wheels churning slowly, too slowly
Motor vessels lined up dutifully, impatiently
Road construction perhaps
A police blockade?
No, no
Already, your driver’s instinct knows
Even if your lover’s does not yet.
And then, too suddenly, realisation bleeds its way into your skull.
No.
But already, your mind’s eye sees the blood staining the pitch…
The mangled body straddling the median…
One foot twisted impossibly into a tree
The face you love, the life you betrayed with your misplaced anger.
Impassive, cold.
Quarrel over.

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