It is the damp washcloth Mom pressed against the back of neck head hanging
down in sink lips drool of blood and vomit the bloody lacerations on thighs
buttocks & back That asshole sleeping in a shabby recliner the belt
dangling from his sex-scented fingers.
It is the toilet full of puke finger down throat the empty gag after bags of
Lays chips & peanut M&Ms two containers of Breyer’s Vanilla ice cream
laxatives hidden under the empty mattress next to the vibrator A mirror
shattered by fist
It is the frumpy chair with wide seat a bunch of affirmations never before
heard the shuffle of feet eyes lowered blinking back tears hands gripping
chair’s arms the gradual release of each nail-bitten finger letting go
Letting go
It is the embrace of naked against clothed fingers tracing spine & shoulder
/ leather coat & jean’s back pockets navy sheets crumpled the dawn sun
through Venetian blinds the kiss before phone calls, e-mails, paperwork
The unimagined contentment of latching lock to a familiar unowned door
It is the words strung in black ant lines marching across the page carrying
picnic food:
Beets Chicken Tomato Cheese Cake
indigestible/digestible hungry/full
Something (a memory, a scared box, a shoehorn, or intuition)
brought to you from him through her and him A gift to be opened & read
understood a picnic basket filled with universal themes ordinary & personal
as 3 o’clock Saturday a date