Everything is fine
as it appears on the surface.
You are
engaged, your home is furnished
you look better
than you’ve ever looked.
But something
beside the heart
and the ribs
tells you to lay fetal
on the cold
wood floor.
It paralyzes you.
You lay motionless. Other than
an occasional phone glance
or sip of lukewarm water,
a pat of the dog that lies beside you.
Internal breath is labored.
You wonder how long this one will last.
You think
maybe this one
will do you in.
Until a quarter past four '
when you rise up,
prepare for him to enter,
shake off the remnants of the day’s battle.
Though there is no wreckage.
Other than a half drunken, cold cup of coffee,
festering dishes in the sink
and the pieces of you
scratched
from you scalp
fallen to the floor.
You know he’ll kiss you,
ask how was your day ?
And you will tell him nothing
of your fight.
Ali Coman is a writer and English teacher in Portland, Oregon. She earned degrees in poetry and journalism from Pepperdine University in Malibu, California and a Masters of Education from Portland State University.
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