Indentations in the Female Psyche

There has been an empty space to the
left of her for some time.
All that remains is an
indentation.

Those who slept on that side were
kind,
some she will not forget,
others are
            forgotten.
Some stayed for just one night
faithless arms and legs entwined,
others for years and years.

Once
a wanting voice flailed against the
gated silence, until exhausted and left there
in the empty spaces between words,
for the less loving one was
rarely her.

The corners of her disobedient
dreams flash images
in which the empty space grows,
like a stain and
she is awakened
drenched in silence, her breath pooling
around her. Some time ago there was

a lamp on the left side, men’s fitness magazines,
and a watch of some rugged wear,

now the leaves of the trees tremble on
windless days and their circling rings
advance into evening. We must ask:
What will become of this left side?

Ah! But stop! – and not overanalyze!
Rationally there is a tantalizing thing that
she declines to see:

Through those curtained windows
under these same stars that we sleep
down winding streets
humming with air conditioners
behind the manicured lawns with
cool sprinklers,
each night,
there are many such
indentations.

This is a reprint of work originally published in Boston Poetry Magazine.
Tony Walton is a Caribbean writer living in the Cayman Islands and has been published most recently in Whisperings, The Avalon Literary Review, Eastlit, Eunoia Review, Poetrybay, Nite-Writer’s International Literary Arts Journal, Storyteller, Burningword Literary Journal,Boston Poetry Magazine, and Out of Our.

A couple on a Sunday Drive