FORTY YEARS LATER
ALM No.95, November 2026
POETRY
Forty Years Later
Hi, Marie. It’s been awhile.
Don’t ‘hi’ me, you bastard!
I’m still a bastard, huh? I’d have thought forty years since our divorce would have dull the edge of your anger.
Why should it? I gave you eighteen of the best years of my life, and you treated me like I was nothing. There wasn’t a day go by that I didn’t feel alone and trapped.
Yeah, but that was forty years ago. Today, our grandson is getting married. So, let’s at least pretend to be civilized for his sake. Besides, I remember our marriage differently. There were good times too.
Good times? You’re out of your mind! There was nothing good about it. It was a mistake from the very beginning.
Have it your way, Marie. But if it was, I wasn’t the only one to blame.
Like hell you weren’t. The only mistake I made was letting you get away with all the hell you put me through from day one.
Okay, okay, Marie, you’ve said your piece for what seems like the zillionth time, and I’ve listened. Can we leave it there, just for today?
You haven’t listened! And I’ll keep saying it as many times as I damn well please! The failure of our marriage was all your fault, you fucking bastard! Every bit of it!
Oh come on. No one would believe that.
I don’t give a damn what anyone believes. I know what happened. I was there, and I remember every detail just as if it were yesterday.
You’re like a broken record, Marie. Give it a break. I’m not about to spend the rest of my life inside what's already dead. I’ve moved on.
No, dammit, you’ve escaped while I’ve remained trapped in it!
Fatal Flaw
Politicians who entreat with open arms,
"Come, weary souls, and find relief today.
We will provide your wants free-of-charge
if first you grant us power at the polls."
Their promises are paid for by others' toil,
to take from those whose labor has earned,
and spread the wealth by legislative hand
until dependence wears the mask of right.
The ballot thus becomes the instrument
by which the many tax the fruitful few.
Each vote appears a bargain for the day,
though future costs remain concealed.
For when reward no longer follows work,
ambition fades beneath enforced equal.
Why strive beyond the ration freely given
when every bowl is filled with the same?
History whispers warnings to the free.
Where equal claims the common good,
production wanes as enterprise grows dim,
and wants replace promises once made.
A nation prospers only while it keeps
the bond between labor, liberty, and gain.
When freedom yields to ever-growing rule,
the price of free-of-charge is paid by all.
Gifting
The house is full, then suddenly not.
The last goodbyes with coats, well
wishes, and laughter fade quickly down
the walk. The house exhales with a hush
after the sweet pleasures of holiday
gifting, lit candles, and dinner delights.
We bag the wrapping paper strewn
on the floor around the tree. And then
we clear the table of glasses that smell
faintly of white wine, and plates that
carry memories of all that goes with
turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce.
With leftovers covered and tucked away
and the dishwasher humming, we come
together and embrace under our hanging
spray of mistletoe. We kiss, first gently,
then with warmth that deepens and gives
way to unrestrained surges of passion.
The tree lights blink like watchful stars,
and the world feels distant and small.
We hurry into our bedroom and close
the door. I dare not, will not, and need not,
explain what follows, except to say that
some gifting is best undertaken in private.
Frank Zahn writes nonfiction, fiction, and poetry about people navigating loss, memory, injustice, work, aging, and the quiet reckonings that arrive when life refuses to simplify itself. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com.
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