October 23, 1996

She was always there when he called
the last on the list for any reason
but especially when others
grew wary of the deceit
                or became too demanding.

There were no demands or conditions
when he called on her young body,
introverted spirit, or willingness,
whether on the phone or in person,
                like a fireman, she was there in a moment.

The humiliation did not pierce her
like the time he delivered her wet
just before dawn as the lights
in her parent's kitchen testified
                of coming events and he departed.

He took sordid photographs,
mementos to be viewed and used,
and like a boy with a new erector set,
played with his toys and tools,
                amused but quickly bored.

She was his alone and pliable;
each twist and distortion
found her eager to please.
It was unbearable to watch
                as he spent her like tires at a stop sign.

Abject, but perhaps forgivable,
with so much confusion in youth,
but he awoke one day disconsolate
realizing his abuse of her treasures
                and the long, cold winter night's approach.

Some binary switch in his mind clicked
like a single reed on some distant pond,
straight one minute and bent the next
by wind stealing away barely noticed,
                heralding the discovery that she was the one.

He determined to sacrifice himself for her
to repay his gross debt to her patience
for all his arrogant theft of her youth
and he pledged to do so for all eternity
                but, like the autumn leaves, she broke away.

The Moth's Flame
Copyright © 1996-2001, Michael Todd Boyum. All rights reserved.