That night you were your second self,
drunk as hell, visiting me
on the late-night doorman’s shift,
arousing his suspicion.
I adored your first self,
creative, concerned, engaged,
yet edgy and willing.
I feared your second self—
but it thrilled me.
With no intent to harm,
you mounted me in your half-dropped jeans,
slamming into my rib cage.
Ignoring a telltale crack,
I soon went off with you
to a swanky swingers’ party,
a venue shunned by all your more
discerning lady friends.
Stupidly, I agreed to foot the hefty bill!
Not a pretty sight,
me, gazing at you
enjoying several other women.
We left, depressed,
my broken rib crying out
for gentle care as we taxied to my street.
There, you abandoned me
and took the cab on up to Harlem.
Five weeks later, still hurting,
yet feeling too humiliated
to seek medical attention,
I remained frightened but untreated,
like a silent victim of rape,
unable to accept or admit
an ugly truth,
Fall/Winter 2019
the perils of my addiction.
Betsy-Anne Hambar is the pen name of a retired editor who is not yet comfortable using her real name owing to the recent #MeToo environment, which she doesn’t feel a part of. At present she lives in New York City with her cat, daughter, son-in-law, and grandson, and is working on a biography concerning one of her more famous relatives. The poetry she has published under her actual name appears in a handful of anthologies and in several online publications.