Cracked
When you say smile, I hear footsteps.
When you say love, I think shortened breath,
an inner tube swelling in the abdomen,
and the magic of tension and elasticity.
Decision, indecision. Bursting
points. The child’s hand clenching
a pin. I tell myself this, too,
will pass, that life’s gifts
balance hurt with pleasure. One
kiss lands in softness. Another twists
into bruises and cracked ribs. Two
nights in intensive care, perpetual
nerve-shredding. When you say quiet,
I see headstones. When you say
please, I feel fingers at my throat.
“Cracked” first appeared in Noble Gas Quarterly. I’m grateful to the Noble Gas team for taking this piece.
O at the Edges 
what a beautifully poignant poem.
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Thank you very much!
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spooky doll picture
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I can’t imagine keeping that doll in my closet!
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Yikes
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That is one scary doll! And the poem is a response to observations, not all of which were pleasant.
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Terrifying
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“When you say quiet,
I see headstones. When you say
please, I feel fingers at my throat.”
Ah, love, human-style, too often. This one makes me shut up, apart from this comment; it conjures that “hush” one experiences in recognizing an (assumed) other’s experience. Another beauty that says just enough.
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I’ve known several people who’ve endured abusive relationships, and this is in response to those.
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This was a tough one to read.
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Thanks, Liz. It was not a quick write.
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You’re welcome, Bob.
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