Dark bits.

This is neither prose nor dark, but I read a comment in a forum that made me think of something I wrote several years ago, and here it is:

AFTER

You haven't lived until she dances just for you,

under the kitchen lights,

naked except for the gray cotton shirt;

Southside Johnny demanding

'Talk to meee!'

Freedom, love and light -- the trifecta of bad poetry--

She embodies, makes holy.

She laughs, arms waving above her head.

The gray cotton shirt pulled higher...

Magic.

Her joy calls out, and even the stones respond.

She leans closer

still dancing, singing;

noses touch, more laughing.

     You haven't lived until she dances just for you

      in the small hours under kitchen lights.

I went to the lake,to our spot. 
there were daffodils there.
i smiled at that, then cried a  little.

you want to hear something funny?
they scare me. 
they are so, so yellow.
they screamed caution.
I almost kept walking, 
but the sun is out, and I am here. 

and you are here.

daffodils are many things.
but they are not witnesses.
so I'll stay.
for a while.

PIE

She served him pie she knew was ruined.

Then stood there, practically daring him to say something. She watched him choke down each dry, charred, mouthful. 

In barely a whisper,"i burnt it on purpose ."

over and over, like a cliched suburban mantra.

Her husband didn't hear her, but the boy did. He heard and remembered.

 

Years later, when his wife burned dinner, he was ready.