Poem 2

STEPWIFE
Valerie Owens

I am not the dark eyed beauty he married
and lost.
I am not the woman he met on shores of Spanish sand--
the woman who spoke three languages,
bore him four sons
and made him a five course meal
for a tenth wedding anniversary.
I am not the Ivy League graduate,
wearer of pearls,
and PTA president.
I am not her.
Yet, our passion is pregnant
with thoughts of her.
She lies entangled in our midnight sheets
and taints the tenderness our kisses.
She twists her slender fingers
in and out of our arguments,
taunting our struggles
and mocking my tears.
He holds me loose in his arms
I feel as though I am suffocating him
with all that I am not.