A Kind Of Darkness

Rough hands rubbing
unwelcome on my inner thigh
felt kind of good. The scent of burning
baby cow’s flesh masked in golden
barbecue sauce still smells kind of good.

After they took the upper hand
of me and then left
I still felt a kind of love
for you. We pollute
our senses in search of something
great guzzling down milk and
whiskey turning wine into more,
stacking another stone on walls
of misery between us
and divinity and go to sleep dreaming
it’s all still a kind of good.

Even though the forests
are naked shivering, the seas
drowning, and animals imprisoned,
it’s all still a kind of good.

There’s a child screaming
to unravel our minds and realize
it’s only still a dream—we can wake up
now. Instead we pull the covers
over our eyes and mind, comfortable
in the dark.

Margaret Marcum lives in Delray Beach with her three cats, Angel, Adam, and Alice. She recently graduated from the MFA program in creative writing at Florida Atlantic University. Her literary interests include ecofeminism and healing the collective through personal narrative. Her poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, NonBinary Review, Scapegoat Review, October Hill Magazine, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, and Children, Churches, and Daddies, among others. She was a finalist for the 2021 Rash Award in Poetry sponsored by Broad River Review.