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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=430967" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Story</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The woman came home to find her husband and children sitting around the table<br>as they'd done so many nights, the lamp on the sideboard casting its usual glow<br>over the rough wood, some flowers the children had picked in a blue vase,<br>the youngest daughter's drawing of a horse tacked beside the window<br>with its burlap drape. They sat around the table with their severed heads set before them<br>on the woven placemats, and each one's arms had been lifted so the hands<br>rested on top of the hair, thick hair of her husband she'd wrapped around<br>her fingers, fine hair of her two daughters, and the baby's soft, barely visible wisps<br>over the small skull the baby's hands were tiny, they'd had to nail them in place,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and this is where I begin to hate the man who told the story, who made me see<br>not just their deaths but the soldiers standing around afterwards, the arc<br>of the hammer as it comes down and drives in what I now can't forget;<br>the best I can do is to think of Christ, so I can somehow bear the nails,<br>so I can carry them to you, and maybe I'm no better than the soldiers to do that.<br>I'm asking you to walk into your own house, to see a child's head<br>bent over her homework as she scissors pictures from a magazine,<br>the bright or dark hair she brushes impatiently out of her eyes.<br>I don't know why I need to say this, or what good or evil it does. I want</div><div style="margin:10px 0">the old, acceptable story of suffering, the cross become icon, holy blood<br>in the chalice. I want not to know what I know as I turn back to my life,<br>my friends who love me, as I set the table with candles and glasses for wine<br>and later put my hands in my lover's hair; he enters me, we fall together<br>onto the bed, he bites my nipples as hard as I can stand it and then harder,<br>and still it's pleasure I feel, we are given this, too; I tell it to myself over<br>and over as we make love like animals deep in the forest, far from any village,<br>caring nothing for the world, ravenous for each other, crying out<br>while workmen slowly hack a road toward us, while the machines come on.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Kim+Addonizio">Kim Addonizio</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=430967" data-title="The Story de Kim Addonizio" data-description="The woman came home to find her husband and children sitting around the table
as they'd done so many nights, the lamp on the sideboard casting its usual glow
over the rough wood, some flowers the children had picked in a blue vase,
the youngest da..."></div>
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