Allison Cundiff

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Carthaginian Peace

My father married the younger woman, fixed her teeth.
My mother took up with the former pimp, sober twenty years!
They smile in their new faces. They have forgotten
the black boot’s Punic sheen, Sunday morning’s whiskey echo.

           Come visit. Come sit by me.

I sit down beside the bed under which I once hid.
Just like God, they can’t make us love them.
Back then there was only the hope of escape.
The shimmering thrill of crossing switchgrass, unfollowed

in the thunderstorm. I counted
the school years left, counted
the drop from the window into the ivy below,
risking the ankle snapped, the cavalry’s triumphant capture.
After all, Cleopatra reached for the asp’s bright bite
to avoid Octavian’s cage.

Once I slipped away. Unnoticed in an itching pinafore
on a bright July sidewalk, I made it to the intersection
where I sat crisscross (I was not allowed to cross).
The police cruiser pulled up beside me,
          no lights, no need!

And mother’s clotted crying in the back seat,
more for him than me, until the officer’s
firm hand at my elbow
          led me home.

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Dinah’s Revenge

In group therapy there were girls who’d been a little hurt, girls who’d hurt themselves,
and one or two of us who sat watching the shadows beyond the door, waiting to see if
he was there to finally finish us off. That was back when the hurt was nosebleed
bright. Like those who have had near death say it looks like after. I told the law I
wanted the revenge Dinah got, but all I had was that room of girls picking at their
cuticles. I went on a date with a cop about a year after. Newly minted. He had a
German Shepherd who didn’t have a bit of police dog in her. I thought they’d keep me
safe. But the cop’s mother called me damaged goods, and the dog only licked my
fingers. I sure was damaged goods, but even then I knew women weren’t supposed to
say things like that. After enough years the hurt took a changed shape. The dreams
settled down. Finally got some teeth. This time I held the double barrel. Felt its oily
burden in my palm. I shoved it in his mouth. Nudged his cheek. That old hurt’s just a
can in the rucksack, its rolling weight a dented echo.

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Banner Art:
Guido Cagnacci, The Death of Cleopatra, c.1645-1655, The MET