You're lucky you chose me.
My credentials check out.
Ask any woman I've been with.
This is what I do,
This is what I 'm capable of.
I'll reorder your spice rack,
Crate your books for the basement and
Much prefer the back of your head
When I fuck you.
This is what I do.
This is what I'm capable of.
I'll look right through you when you cry,
Offer my back after nightmares,
Leave you alone in hard labor
And drink myself blind
On your birthday.
This is what I do.
This is what I'm capable of.
But the thing I do best,
And in this I have no rival,
Is the slow,
Sucking down
Of your soul, your soul, your soul.
This is what I do.
This is what I'm capable of.


Our marriage was an accused witch in Salem,
With boulders, one by one,
Squeezing the life out of it.
How diligently you mined
Our stony soil
Hoisting this granite slab,
That mica armload
To firmly press
Our sweet young flesh.
You stop to chisel art in the rocks.
Never mind the gasping,
You want to be understood.
An overweight woman here,
A smashed martini glass there,
And a little girl in overalls
Instead of a dress.
In the final rock, the one on top
Carve an apple and an orange.
It will show we were doomed
From day one.

(c) 2001 M.J. Tenerelli

Mary Jane Tenerelli

M.J. Tenerelli is a New York writer and poet who is working through her penchant for turning total loser boys into significant others. She has been published in a number of online publications, including the July issue of AnotherSun.