a dumbness of mallets

a dumbness of mallets

 

the first warm sunday

of the year, the sun

barely up and yawning

before men grunt in garages,

clatter in sheds,

unsheathing power tools

with more care and attention

than their children have ever known,

expectant window faces,  

desperate for an invite

that never comes

 

not even nine,

and a dumbness of mallets sounds,

a migraine of lawnmowers,

a whining cry, as your chainsaw fires up

with the same sound and speed

as when you ejaculate –

that quick, furious shudder

of subjugation,

inside a wife,

who sounded out a clear no

 

a relentless clang of hammers

banging at stone

that won’t give,

over and over

and over and over

as you fail to comprehend,

hatchets and axes, swung

in a topless show of strength

no one cares about

 

the hissing recrimination

of a pressure washer,

a four-wheeled cock,

leased within an inch of its life

gleams on the driveway

for every other man to see

tools of dominion,

in ignorant hands of destruction

 

men, desperate

to prove supremacy,

over such awful threats

as thriving hedges,

tree stumps and grass,

this frenzied desire for control –

the basic ingredient of war

 

noiseless women,

forced to learn that silence

is safest,

peep from behind curtains,

questioning, whether  

they’ll ever be free