Quickie of the Day, Sunday, Oct. 3, 2010

Sedative

harsh, this night is a wakened sting

a lover’s hand, curled into a fist

my eyes trace shadows against my wall

waiting for whatever will bring them

surrender

her first yell is always this unanticipated car alarm

some yelping dog, or a baby crying

something that comes like

a gunshot against the stillness

I hear it, but ignore the warning

then

shouting always gives way to punches

hit once, hit twice

a scream that crushes eardrum, soul impacted

by words hurled out through the dark, like javelins

“bitch, I wish you would die..”

they’re at it again

2 and 16 meet in digital red

on the clock at the edge of my nightstand

announcing both my restlessness

and their nightly drama’s incessant arrival

beneath my window, the downstairs neighbors

throwing insults and blows like

rocks against my pane

if I were sleeping, this would wake me

but I’ve heard it so many times before

that it only makes me sick

often feels like crude burlesque

a parody of two intending to kill

instead of this

a 170lb cocoa skinned woman

being loved to death by her 230lb man

or the sorry excuse of one he becomes

after a bone breaks or blood starts to pour

or she finds weapon or word enough to

make him cease

they always sit down, together

on the side of the curb, shaded in moonlight

chaos subsided into peace

and I just listen

to all of his reassurances

and I listen

to all her demands

I just listen, can almost hear that very moment

when his shoulder makes room for her head

and that’s how they stay there

together, sitting in comfort, side by side, until morning comes

we don’t bother to call the cops anymore

or drop the numbers of shelters in her basket

when she does laundry alone

by nightfall, the yelling will commence again

and my window, rattled by the impact of blows

she won’t leave him

and he won’t walk away, though I’ve seen him

watch her with tears in his eyes

knowing very well the full impact of his rage

as she sits on the stoop, cloudy sky, arms folded

on her face she wears shades

and the unmistakable disposition of broken

which he not proudly made

it breaks my heart in two most nights

when I hear her initial cry

or see her the next morning, begging for understanding

through bruised eye

or think of how much she’ll give and give

and give, and give and give

and give….until, eventually

just like I manage to do

she’ll block out her thoughts, close weary eyes…

and finally get some sleep