Those nights we fight, sitting on the hard
kitchen chairs, dinner bones still
piled on our plates, there should be marks,
sharp drops of blood matching
my teeth, ripped fur bits flung
beneath the table, evidence of hurt
among the crumbs.
That’s what I know how to do.
Throwing the diamond necklace
at the man who threw my jewelry box
at me, breaking it and then fixing it,
breaking it and then fixing it; I know
how to do that, to be broken
and fixed, broken and fixed.
How I admire my stitches.
To stand still
while this one fastens
a necklace of semi-precious stones
around my neck, how hard can it be
to bear kindness? His rose quartz,
moss agate, carnelian, tiger’s eye;
my hand presses them to my skin,
warming, keeping them.
Published in The Poeming Pigeon: A Literary Journal of Poetry, vo. 3 no. 2, 2017