The Root from Which Wives Came

The Root from Which Wives Came

By Shaire Blythe

The root from which wives came is more than a thousand "I love yous" on a single page contorted to avoid the collision of o's with u's, yet still finding that not every aversion can be missed.

Such things leave behind the remnants of crimson dust leading to a point that becomes a blur with the passing of one—four year anniversaries and necks within the loop of nooses.

They could've killed the wives.

Eyes veiny, reaching out in desperate pleas to be released,

no words to choke out. Even if they could've, an answer to a call had the capacity to mosey by fellow ears, tuned out to the screams between bedroom walls.

Mothers before applied the permanent solution—boys will be boys.

Boys will wrestle in the dirt, letting the gooeyness spoil their ripped jeans and crust in their hair.

They'll reach for their toy guns and point them in girls' faces screaming, "Stop right there, or I'll shoot."

Wives have to be quiet upstairs while they listen to another wife being torn limb to limb downstairs.

It's okay—it's what must be done.

Obey.

Rooms are rearranged and brightened to keep the air from being stale, masking a vault from itself.

But the wives will always be given a solid reason to wear black.

Their hoarse voices don't align with the silent declaration, "Just do it, just fucking end me already" as fists draw back and land on destinations meant to be sacred.

Wives envision dancing a warrior's dance, feet pounding in the dirt. But visions are more frequent than actions, because they might've creeped to the first drawer in the kitchen by now and introduced the steak blade to hairy chests.

Wives minds rattles in conscious argument, when husbands pull back in disgust after caressing their faces just a minute ago, declaring there could never be another.

It was the dress this time—it's above the knee.

It's the breasts poking out of the top of a V-neck. Some turtleneck must be better or a wool jacket on a seventy-five-degree day.

Rita Hayworth with her long glove-covered arms and black dress contouring to each hip bone and lumps of mounded flesh must have really gotten it worse then.

Her hips on the dance floor had swayed, dipped and grinded at the amusement of Glenn Ford, as long as no one else was around to see.

Wives want to release a blast of a belch out of them, hard like a familiar fist to level the playing ground of torture.

Rage is one house visit away from the next one and the next one.

Girl scouts could go down a whole block and find wives behind doors seemingly open, but closed to the public.

Wives want to warn them to leave the block and never look back. Take their cookies with them. See the pain in dead irises and do whatever you have to to never end up on the block again.

Wives hope the girl scouts would firmly turn, fixing their eyes on the horizon, their cookies trailing behind in a cart.

The girl scouts' souls might be mad for today, but they would thank the wives later.

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Revision:

Roots from which wives came--

more than a thousand "I love yous" on a single page,

contorted to avoid collisions of o's with u's, 

yet sill finding not every aversion can be missed.

Remnants of crimson dust are left behind,

leading to points that become a blur.

One--four year anniversaries pass with time,

and necks hang within the loop of nooses.

They could've killed the wives.

Eyes bulging out in desperate pleas--

no words to choke out. 

If they could've, an answer to a call knew how to mosey right on by, 

tuned out to screams between bedroom walls.

Mothers before applied the classical tune--boys will be boys.

Boys will wrestle in the dirt,

the gooeyness spoiling ripped jeans and crusting in their hair.

They'll reach for toy guns, point them in girls' faces screaming, 

"Stop right there, or I'll shoot."

Wives are quiet upstairs, 

listening to other wives being torn limb to limb downstairs.

It's okay--it must be done.

Obey.

Rooms are rearranged, brightened to keep the air from being stale, masking a vault from itself.

But the wives will always be given a solid reason to wear black.

Their hoarse voices can't align with silent declarations, 

"Just do it, just fucking end me already" 

as fists draw back, land on sacred destinations.

Wives envision dancing a warrior's dance, 

feet pounding in the dirt.

But visions are more frequent than actions--

none have crept to the first drawer in the kitchen,

introducing the steak blade to hairy chests.

Wives minds rattle in conscious argument, 

as husbands pull back in disgust.

It was the dress--it's above the knee.

It's the wives breasts poking out of the top of her V-neck. 

Turtlenecks must be better on a seventy-five degree day.

Rita Hayworth with her long glove-covered arms,

black dress contouring to hip bones and lumps of mounded flesh 

must have gotten it worse.

Her hips had swayed on the dance floor, 

dipped and grinded at the amusement of Glenn Ford.

As long as no one else was around to see.

Wives want to release a blast of a belch, 

hard like a familiar fist to level the playing ground of torture. 

Rage is one house visit away from the next.

Girl scouts could go down a whole block, 

find wives behind doors seemingly open.

Wives want to warn them to leave the block--

take their cookies with them. 

See the pain in dead irises,

do whatever to never end up on the block again.

The wives hope the girl scouts would firmly turn, 

fixing their eyes on the horizon, cookies trailing behind in a cart.

The girl scouts' souls might be mad for today, 

but they would thank the wives later.