My reflection walked away
leaving me to answer for
the hole in the bathroom wall.
A doorknob slam
against a wound of fragile plaster
and the damage I have become.
I knew it couldn’t be me standing
there with rain pouring
down my head, eyes, and nose.
And I, the woman, flinging irons and shoes
after kicking boards onto the floor,
after tossing cups of chilled soda across
the room, the walls, like paint and mud,
reaching to find her way back
by pulling away from a man who has
perfected the art of unintentional
I remember the cartons of love
he used to fix for dinner
forking enough for a quiet evening at home.
That was before living began to interfere
with being alive.
So I pulled down the top
on the toilet seat and sat down.
I needed to relax, think about
cooking dinner, about not letting
the kids see me like this.
I have never let people see me
like this before –
vulnerable and out of control –
the way I used to get
whenever Dad made me feel small