Fight Club fan art by http://bluedicius.deviantart.com/
LYD HAVENS
A Marriage, Previously Without Fists
The first rule of Fight Club: you do not talk about Fight Club.
But he did. It came spilling out of his throat
like digested wine. It was after he came home
one night sighing. I saw him in my mind
as a fighter fish, with billowy fins dip dyed in blood.
I didn’t marry a man who destroyed for fun,
I said to him as I cleaned up the mess.
And I swear, I saw fury in his eyes,
fury full of ashtrays and infection.
The second rule of Fight Club: You DO NOT talk about Fight Club.
I thought he might hit me too, that maybe
he saw my nose or my left cheek as target points.
But he just sighed again and went to brush his teeth.
Before going into the bathroom, this is what he said:
don’t ever question me about this. Act like
it never happens.
The third rule: if someone says “stop”, goes limp, or taps out, the fight is over.
Our fight is silent, not underground. He is not limitless here.
I know that beating the crap out of another guy
is his new bong hit. But I am getting angrier
by the imagined punch. When he comes home
with pregnant knuckles, dripping blood all over the floor,
I feel like a volcano of a wife. I am waiting
for the tectonic plates below me to pose perfectly.
I am waiting for the last straw, the last black eye
or missing tooth I see before I pack my suitcase
and he shows me the front door. I am waiting.
The fourth rule: only two guys to a fight.
The fifth rule: one fight at a time.
I try to picture him in his new stance: shirt off,
the bones trying to poke through his skin
like voodoo pins. Fists up, eyes alert.
Then I picture him on our wedding day:
a smile like the American Dream, a clean and crisp suit,
a few tears in his eyes. He had kissed me
with such passion on that day. Now he picks
through our fights like a vulture through a carcass,
calls me names I dare not repeat to my mother.
Of course I haven’t said anything about Fight Club
since he accidentally confessed. I know
what my mother would say, only two words:
“leave him”.
The sixth rule: no shirts, no shoes.
When he comes into bed, he leaves his clothes on.
Usually, he reeks of cold sweat and cheap beer,
his hands clammy on my semi-bare shoulders.
Sometimes I think he is going to take me from behind,
won’t ask or anything. But it’s like he stops himself short,
and then falls asleep. It is then when I see
the broken chips of decency inside of him. I think
they broke him.
The seventh rule: Fights will go on for as long as they have to.
I ask a friend for advice on a Saturday. She tells me
what I know my mother would say. I don’t know
if I love him anymore. A terrible thing to admit.
But it’s become too much, and I am afraid.
Once, I thought of raining ash and fire upon him,
of leaving within a thunderclap. But now,
I want the world to be quiet, I want my departure
to go unnoticed. I want to erase these last months,
as if they were on paper.
And the eighth rule: if this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight.
The tectonic plates underneath me pose perfectly
on a night he leaves the apartment with gauze packed
between his fingers. I won’t be back ‘til late, he says,
so don’t wait up late for me.
And I leave in a whisper.
Lyd Havens is currently writing pieces that are going through experimental phases. They are the co-Editor-in-Chief/Executive Poetry Editor of Transcendence Magazine, and their work has previously appeared in NEAT Magazine and Blue Monday Review. They currently live near Tucson, Arizona, and are on a mission to find their name on a Coke bottle.
A Marriage, Previously Without Fists
The first rule of Fight Club: you do not talk about Fight Club.
But he did. It came spilling out of his throat
like digested wine. It was after he came home
one night sighing. I saw him in my mind
as a fighter fish, with billowy fins dip dyed in blood.
I didn’t marry a man who destroyed for fun,
I said to him as I cleaned up the mess.
And I swear, I saw fury in his eyes,
fury full of ashtrays and infection.
The second rule of Fight Club: You DO NOT talk about Fight Club.
I thought he might hit me too, that maybe
he saw my nose or my left cheek as target points.
But he just sighed again and went to brush his teeth.
Before going into the bathroom, this is what he said:
don’t ever question me about this. Act like
it never happens.
The third rule: if someone says “stop”, goes limp, or taps out, the fight is over.
Our fight is silent, not underground. He is not limitless here.
I know that beating the crap out of another guy
is his new bong hit. But I am getting angrier
by the imagined punch. When he comes home
with pregnant knuckles, dripping blood all over the floor,
I feel like a volcano of a wife. I am waiting
for the tectonic plates below me to pose perfectly.
I am waiting for the last straw, the last black eye
or missing tooth I see before I pack my suitcase
and he shows me the front door. I am waiting.
The fourth rule: only two guys to a fight.
The fifth rule: one fight at a time.
I try to picture him in his new stance: shirt off,
the bones trying to poke through his skin
like voodoo pins. Fists up, eyes alert.
Then I picture him on our wedding day:
a smile like the American Dream, a clean and crisp suit,
a few tears in his eyes. He had kissed me
with such passion on that day. Now he picks
through our fights like a vulture through a carcass,
calls me names I dare not repeat to my mother.
Of course I haven’t said anything about Fight Club
since he accidentally confessed. I know
what my mother would say, only two words:
“leave him”.
The sixth rule: no shirts, no shoes.
When he comes into bed, he leaves his clothes on.
Usually, he reeks of cold sweat and cheap beer,
his hands clammy on my semi-bare shoulders.
Sometimes I think he is going to take me from behind,
won’t ask or anything. But it’s like he stops himself short,
and then falls asleep. It is then when I see
the broken chips of decency inside of him. I think
they broke him.
The seventh rule: Fights will go on for as long as they have to.
I ask a friend for advice on a Saturday. She tells me
what I know my mother would say. I don’t know
if I love him anymore. A terrible thing to admit.
But it’s become too much, and I am afraid.
Once, I thought of raining ash and fire upon him,
of leaving within a thunderclap. But now,
I want the world to be quiet, I want my departure
to go unnoticed. I want to erase these last months,
as if they were on paper.
And the eighth rule: if this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight.
The tectonic plates underneath me pose perfectly
on a night he leaves the apartment with gauze packed
between his fingers. I won’t be back ‘til late, he says,
so don’t wait up late for me.
And I leave in a whisper.
Lyd Havens is currently writing pieces that are going through experimental phases. They are the co-Editor-in-Chief/Executive Poetry Editor of Transcendence Magazine, and their work has previously appeared in NEAT Magazine and Blue Monday Review. They currently live near Tucson, Arizona, and are on a mission to find their name on a Coke bottle.