November 2020
Bio Note: Because I live in the Mojave Desert, survival is literally a hot topic. Along with the weather,
there are endless tragic stories of people who came to a bad end in the middle of nowhere. Those stories, particularly
the ones about women, have always grabbed me. This poem is from a series called “No Direction Home: Women Lost in the Mojave.”
The Mistress
He had a way with horses. With me.
I couldn’t resist that Marine—
all muscle, a genuine stallion.
After a tryst, he’d say,
That was too good. I won’t let you
go home. I’d laugh and dare him,
Bring it on. He’d get a divorce,
I knew it—I already loved
his girl like my own—I’d hug
her and say, I won’t let you go.
She’d squirm and run. My own
husband, stale as day-old bread,
turned a blind eye to the flirting,
ignored my lies, the pregnancy
test kit stuffed in the trash.
All signs pointed toward new life.
So when my he-man took me
for a drive, promising a surprise,
I expected at least a ring—
not a garotte from behind.
It’s a long fall down an old
mineshaft, and an even longer
haul up when your body’s
been shattered. Now I know—
the people who tried for months
to find me loved me more.
They brought me home.
©2020 Cynthia Anderson
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the
author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual.
It is very important. -JL