All up and down the block
this morning,
women are packing to leave.
Getting down the smaller suitcase,
emptying out half the closet
and the upper dresser drawers,
while their husbands sleep,
sleep it off again, spent
from the effort of keeping her in line.
His throat will hurt when he wakes up.
Not as much as her arm,
grasped too tightly, her cheek,
slapped too hard,
the small of her back, those bruises
matching up to the sharp edge
of the counters in the kitchen.
By noon or one o’clock, he’ll have called,
placed his order for dinner,
offered his diffident apology,
slung that silken lasso out
to reel her right back in.
All over the world this morning,
women assess the damage,
take inventory, survey
their chances of escape.
They weigh the horror
of homelessness
against the hollow comforts
of this home.
Published in Outlet, National Council Against Domestic Violence newsletter, and Degenerates: Voices for Peace; used in “Voices Unheard, Sisters Unseen” by Women Makes Movies.
After retiring from a column-writing gig lasting eleven years and yielding over 300 personal essays, I find I still have something to say. My thoughts range far and wide, and occasionally deep, on subjects including being an Iowan who misses Colorado; surviving marital violence; raising an amazing daughter and an equally amazing son; being justifiably angry about the world “these days;” writing poetry and plays; wondering if I’ll get Alzheimer’s like my mom and her two brothers; wanting to write about my twin granddaughters without sounding all Hallmark-y; fixing OCD-ish food; making sense of pants that come in shorts / crops / ankle-grazing / bootcut; being a librarian in public, academic, archival, and medical libraries; waiting 46 years to attend my high school reunion; having a gorgeous garden I can’t take care of; seeing a shaman; loving good men despite all the bad ones; and trying to wrest a little joy from life despite an 11-year-and-counting chronic migraine.