Through

She wants to get past that innocuous exterior,

his public front that speaks of art and opera

in stale-scented breath through yellow teeth.

Go beyond that shiny-elbowed mass-produced suit,

whose worsted crotch sports a small wet daub

of newly spilled acrid urine. 

Past the sallow skin, downward pointing nipples

on slumped pectorals, the sagging stomach

that makes his voice rise as he pulls it in.

Steering clear of a part he doesn’t care to contemplate

whose blood no longer flows just as it should.

She wants to get through the muscles, no longer taut,

covered in grey dimpled fat and over ashen thinning bones

into his heart,  no longer beating a regular rhythm, 

blood flow decreased by grey-lined arteries.

She needs to remove that unknown dirty thing

that makes him follow her through her days

and flinch at the sound of the phone.

She will don her rubber gloves

and butcher’s apron,

cut with a sharp steel blade.