KRS 403.740 Emergency protective order.
If, upon review of the petition, as provided for in KRS 403.735, the court determines that the allegations contained therein indicate the presence of an immediate and present danger of domestic violence and abuse, the court shall issue, upon proper motion, ex parte, an emergency protective order . . .
Forgive me. I was sixteen, hard-headed, big-haired, ready to fight.
I was newfangled, a know-it-all, a meddler with an overstuffed
carpetbag. Forgive me. I talked you into it; I took you downtown.
For saying you were silly to be afraid of traffic and parallel parking,
of meters and paperwork and the family court judge. Fanny, we can do this, I said
like some kind of cheerleader dumbstruck with virtue, ready to change the world.
Let me do this, I said. School was out, I had my own car, and it was easy
enough to call the pizza joint and tell a version of the truth:
I can’t come in to work; I feel kinda sick.
The world dislocated hung on my tongue—your cabinet from its hinge, your shoulder
from your arm. For the word grandfather curdled in my mouth, and I thought
we could spit it out.
Forgive me. For the obscenity of your size-five house slippers up the courthouse
stairs, for the security guard, eyeing through the x-ray machine, suspicious
of all your little disco cases—one for lipstick and another for your lighter, even
your cigarette holder a gold box threatening his big-man screen. Forgive me for
the conveyor belt; it smudged your white pocketbook, and for the life of me,
we never could get it clean. Because even then I knew what I’d done—
Oh, Fanny, I didn’t realize this place would be so dirty. Who in God’s name pissed
right on the wall? I wish somebody would talk to us; I wish somebody would take a rag
to that nasty Plexiglas, and here, sit on my coat, I know these hard plastic chairs are killing
your knees. Forgive me for the hours we waited
in the ash and gum and grease, the angry men pacing angry, the women on their knees
changing diapers, babies back-flat on the cold tile floor.
Forgive me. For while we waited, I fooled with the official initials:
Elephants Pick Olives.
Elves Pursue Orchids.
Egypt Ponders Ontario.
Eggs Produce Odor.
Again, I’m so sorry:
Evelyn Punched Out.
Eve Pinched Ocher.
Edith’s Pussy Opened.
Enough, Please, Ouch.
Everyone Pummeled Over.
Each Pushed Out.
Forgive me. I thought I could stomach what happened to things jerked
from their homes—jellyfish puddled to wet tissue on the shore
the same as a yellow iris cut and brought inside, how quickly the bloom
makes Kleenex of her beautiful face. You wore your hair in rollers under a scarf
wrapped so tight it looked like you were an immigrant to your own country,
a lady prepared for snow in spring, and your signature at the bottom of the form
was old-fashioned, practiced, perfectly slanted, and I mused:
Even if she never really learned to write, she sure made certain
her signature looked good. When the caseworker called
your married name, he insisted he talk to you alone.
Forgive me, I let him do that, I let him, and you swallowed and sweetly said,
Alrighty then, here goes.