Backtalk by Ingrid Bruck

I am not a silent poet

Besotted love birds, they entered,
arms wrapped around each other.
He kept his hands on her in the library, 
her body molded to his. 
They cruised up and down aisles
clasped like tandem trailers, stitched together,
he could have been her shadow. 
It was Darlin’ this, Honey that, and Sweetheart,
I wondered if the man knew her name.
She pulled away, he resisted. 
His hand slid quick as a snake to her shoulder, 
clutched her neck, compliance assured
with the steel of possession. 
I did a double take, watched more closely.
“Let’s check out a movie,” the man announced.
They spoke in silent gazes. 
He gave her a wordless look, frozen, she stared back. 
“Were they lovers so immersed in each other
they couldn’t bear to be parted a moment?
Or was he an alpha claiming domination?
Or worse, a woman abuser. 
I approached them, trying to…

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