I, Me, My
forty five and afraid to speak.
Numbness oozes slowly through her body
like cake batter thickening in the heat.
Her docile homemaking hands
palms up, in her lap, awaiting the next rain.
is awake, contrary to popular
belief and it is knotting words together like
"nice," "pretty," "good," and "wife."
Other words being to straddle
"No," "Angry," "Why" --
new words like, "I," "Me," "My."
the secret films begin to run in her brain;
her hands come alive with the
of his hair entwined in her fisted fingers
and she hears the thick
of his head striking the pavement,
feels the weight of his
skull as she
sits docile in her yellow kitchen.
there is no violence, there is violent silence
hanging, waiting to be
pummeled into sound.
She raises her fingers to her cheekbone
the purple, swollen with those words.
She has six hours till children,
to remember, to say "I," "Me," "My."