You come through the door
like a flood of barking dogs,
and throw your arms around me.

My heart is a piece of meat
that hangs upside down in a cold room,
but I am polite as you give me the gift.

My memory flashes to lessons etched,
the belt, the hairbrush, on the back of my legs,
mornings waking, lost like baggage with strangers.
You were out smoothing rough men,
a wild river polishing rocks.

We move to the balcony,
caged in each other's presence,
I try to speak of fragile subjects.

You yawn the same way you did that day
Bobby Olson beat me and chased me home.
My fists pounded against the locked door.
I saw your pretty red lips widen,
your white hand pull down the shade.



�2006 by Kerri Rochelle