Standing by the sink in her silky, satin robe, Marilyn
wrung out her wrath like a red dish towel.
Ken steamed in his cup of indignation.
But two mugs held freshly ground, pungent French roast,
and it was morning in America.
Call me Mara, Marilyn said,
remembering the Book of Ruth,
because the Almighty
has dealt quite bitterly with me.
She turned to Ken
and tapped her fingernail on the counter.
I was married to a wonderful man––
sometimes I mistake you for him––
At Lawrence Livermore,
your work on the “PEACE THROUGH STRENGTH” initiative––
how is that more than a nuclear feint
in a global gotcha game of chess?
I don’t remember asking for this … Do you?
Her coffee was cold. He dumped his.
Sometimes she just felt like screaming inside.
William Binzen loves shaping both words and photographs. Burning Man Journal calls him the “visual thought leader” who helped transform a tailgate party into the renowned art festival it is today. He brings this same spirit of experimentation to his poetry through narrative invention, character dialogue, intentional structure and sound-crafting.
