by donora hillard
My husband was a shotgun made of candy.
I wanted to kill his former lovers, especially
the Strawberry Shortcake-looking one
who swore she was eighteen and the other
who scarred his forearms with knives he
later laid on my body. On our anniversary,
we made love in a kiddie pool full of sugar
and afterbirth. For my birthday, he blew
into fifteen pink balloons and set them loose
around the living room. Then he wanted me
to let his breath out and chase after them
with my mouth open, always wide open.