On the Little Strip of Earth

The very odd thing is that he said,

and I think he believes, that

he never meant

to hurt me. I am

talking about my history here.

Outside walking down the sidewalk,

there is some kind of terror inside.

I see that

it is summer: I do not need a coat.

In the backyard a tent is still up,

makeshift escape in our

tiny backyard. In the daylight

the children might be giggling inside.

Now it is night and the children are asleep
upstairs in their beds. I enter the tent and close
the zipper behind me. All around are blankets and
pain.  I look for intermittent muted flashes of light; it's
too late for fireflies. I am in there praying.

When I can stand it no longer, I

open the tent door and

step back outside.  It has grown chilly
in the meantime.  I can feel

the dew beginning to descend, molecules of air
growing heavy and sleepy. Next to me is the tree

and the ordinary sound of crickets and cicadas.

Neighborhood houses hum

with families, but

nobody sees me.  When I

stood outside the window of the

living room near the hydrangea bushes

in full bloom, I could see him.
He seemed content, unmoved, sitting on the couch,

watching television.  His back was to me.