Atrocities

Hell, you said , was not a caliente inferno
for demons and lost souls,
but the act of being completely alone -
Thoreau-style solitude, in the wilderness
of our own minds and past lives,
again and again and again and again
we are forced to watch, as if held down by the hand of God,
our atrocities animated not against strangers or neighbors
but worse, against loved ones.  

We sat in the dark, in your parked car half-drunk
in our parents' driveway talking about the spiritual
and not quite sure if we were making sense of sense.
At first it felt awkward sitting next to you alone
without the familiar distractions of our big family,
you in between girlfriends and I at home for the weekend
without my loving husband but with my beloved dog.
The glowing ember of your cigarette burned on in the dark.