not all women are cunts

by Justin Hyde

we parked her car
in front of the old farmhouse
where i rented a room.

i’d picked her up at
denny arthurs,
which is the old-folks bar in des moines
i often went to
when closing time approached
and i’d struck out
elsewhere.

i undid my pants,
put her hand
on it.

she
worked it,
then she put her head
down there.

then these
small
dry sobs.

told me
she was living
with a man,
he was good
to her three kids.

she didn’t love him,
but he didn’t deserve
this.

i pulled my pants up,
watched her
drive away.

i flicked the kitchen lights on,
cockroaches scurried
behind the stove
and down
the garbage disposal.

i sat quiet
at the kitchen table
for some time.

feeling very much
like one of
them.