BLAME.

A WOMAN'S LIFE OF ILLTREATMENT BY HER MAN.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There would always
Be a door to blame or
A stairway to fall down
Unpushed, she knows

 

When the mood took him
Or the moon was full or
New or whatever he said
It was; always blame the

 

Moon, she guesses, and
The ever-remaining days
And months for bruises to
Go and cuts to heal, and

 

The ego struggle to maintain
Some balance after the storm
Has subsided, and the fists
Were down by his sides

 

Unclenched and carrying
Flowers or welcomingly
Open. There would always
Be walls to blame for the

 

Bruises and marks on face
And arms and bodies seen
And unseen; always be the
Self to blame for getting in

 

The way of a flying hand
Or punch; should have seen
It coming; ought to have
Known the signs; known

 

The thundering sounds by
Closing doors or slammed
Down books, cups, or glass.
She sees a woman in the small

 

Mirror on the wall; the colours
Range from blue to green to pink
To black and all the way round
And down and back. There would

 

Always be his job to blame, the
Time spent, the waste of words,
And the coming through the air
Fists taking flight like angry birds.