The Telling

In that one helpless moment,
arduous with all the stops,
yells, cries, pushes
that one can handle,
obsessive, outrageous, petulant
with both anger and fear,
not with the fear of dying,
but with the fear
of missing something,
yes, that one second
where nothing was at all
said the way it was supposed
to be said:
slowly, calmly, with taste,
unaffected and honest,
as though he was talking
to his mother,
telling her
that he loves her,
instead of wrestling
over a few words
with his wife or lover
(I thought it was his wife),
he found not discomfort
nor surprise,
that he was being driven down,
underground down,
and forced to cry
in front of her saying
"How could you fucking fuck him?"
and being braced only
in that he had held
his hands in prayer.