First Love

By Sokunthary Svay

 

The week ends only to begin  
With choke-holds and yelling matches.

 

Your legs drape the second-story window
Heckling at tequila-induced enemies.
You never seemed more like a child.

 

The shudder of sound bites in retrospect:
“those kind of girls deserve to be raped,”
“those girls eating too much rice and beans.”

 

Two 40-ounces (the budget kind)
Confess of cheap drunken love. 

 

Your world was a blizzard of paranoia,
Curled bills and dusty mirrors throughout the house.

 

You thought the neighbors were cutting up bodies,
Another time, human-sized rats on roller skates.

 

There was meth(od) to your madness.
Past airport security, you hid crystal rocks in your crotch.

 

To you, multiculturalism meant Spanish-speaking pushers
And a bisexual friend (who preferred men, really).

 

Quit collegiate flute “instruction” for poems instead.
You co(r)ked up your nose and spoke drivel.

 

No wonder I seized his embrace
And choked from air you withheld.

 

Attached names biologically wed to me, inevitable:
Slut—whore—baby—

 

I was gonna marry you.

 

Threats of dull, hetero language.
Even now, I see your face on sitcom stars

 

And welcome another’s hands as renewal.

Published July 2008