He hits me
like a thousand jagged stars popping behind my eyes,
like the noon whistle in my ears,
like every synapse firing.
The floor and I are friends.
The floor supports me in my paralysis-
all still except the heat oozing in my face,
except this raging thought:
I can never be right like this.
Now I am that woman who knows
that it's safer to brawl on the front lawn
before neighbors who peek through
burnt orange curtains or dusty mini-blinds.
Now I am that woman who calls
the police at three AM-they will come
even if I hang up too soon.
Now I am that woman who goes
to the shelter-just like on the news.
Am I messy? Ripped babydoll dress?
Do my popsicle-faced children stand behind me
like ducklings behind a hen?
Am I neat? Unexpected class?
Did I pull up in a suburban or a mini-van?
Are you surprised at the gold chain around my neck?
The diamonds in my ears?
kmb 07/02
