AI
the black, rubber flaps
of the garbage disposal
that is open like a mouth saying, ah.
You tell me it’s the last thing I’ll feel
before I go numb.
Is it my screaming that finally stops you,
or is it the fear
that even you are too near the edge
of this Niagara to come back from?
You jerk my hand out
and give me just enough room
to stagger around you.
I lean against the refrigerator,
not looking at you, or anything,
just staring at a space which you no longer inhabit,
that you’ve abandoned completely now
to footsteps receding
to the next feeding station,
where a woman will be eaten alive
after cocktails at five.
The flowers and chocolates, the kisses,
the swings and near misses of new love
will confuse her,
until you start to abuse her,
verbally at first.
As if trying to quench a thirst,
you’ll drink her
in small outbursts of rage
then you’ll whip out your semiautomatic,
make her undress, or listen to hours
of radio static as torture
for being amazed that the man of her dreams
is a nightmare, who only seems happy
when he’s making her suffer.
The first time you hit me,
I left you, remember?
It was December. An icy rain was falling
and it froze on the roads,
so that driving was unsafe, but not as unsafe
as staying with you.
I ran outside in my nightgown,
while you yelled at me to come back.
When you came after me,
I was locked in the car.
You smashed the window with a crowbar,
but I drove off anyway.
I was back the next day
and we were on the bare mattress,
because you’d ripped up the sheets,
saying you’d teach me a lesson.
You wouldn’t speak except
to tell me I needed discipline,
needed training in the fine art
when your fist slammed into my jaw.
You taught me how ropes could be tied
so I’d strangle myself,
how pressure could be applied to old wounds
until I cried for mercy,
until tonight, when those years
of our double exposure end
with shot after shot.
How strange it is to be unafraid.
When the police come,
I’m sitting at the table,
the cup of coffee
that I am unable to drink
as cold as your body.
I shot him, I say, he beat me.
I do not tell them how the emancipation from pain
leaves nothing in its place.