Lights sweep across my bedroom ceiling
Like a lighthouse warning
The inhale of the hammer pull, the gong of the strike
Somewhere in the span of night, the clock tells me
Our fragile peace is about to crash upon the rocks
Gravel crunches on the driveway
I trace your path from the familiar sounds
Testing the fortitude of the vibrations
Engine cut, truck door swung open, slammed closed
Steps to the back door, crashed open, slammed shut
Pinballing down the hall
Door pushed open, the stage set
For your showdown
Light switched on like an accusation
The flick echoing across the hall like a shot
Swaying against the doorframe
Mumbled words flung on impotent waves
Bursting with misplaced rage
A gulf too wide to bridge in the glare of the overhead bulb
That opening lost several drinks back
I imagine the standoff – the doorway, the bed
From the moonlit pool of my room
I can’t make out the words
Can only see the red on the inside of my eyes,
Squeezed shut
Finally, unfulfilled, you curse and leave
Retracing your steps, spinning tires into the night
The inhale of the hammer pull, the gong of the strike
Where am I in the span of the night?
Lost somewhere in the still hours between midnight and two
Trapped in 15-minute increments
Ears straining for the sound of the truck
Chime. Lights. Crunch. Slam. Steps. Slam. Steps. Bang. Light. Mumble. Steps. Bang. Steps. Slam. Crunch. Spin.
Endless loops in the dark
Chime. Lights. Crunch. Slam. Steps. Slam. Steps. Bang. Light. Mumble. Steps. Bang. Steps. Slam. Crunch. Spin.
How many circuits will it be tonight?
Dark nights metered in time with the quarterly gong
Grandmother’s clock a witness from the mantel
Warm milk tries to fill the cold
Tears splash on my bare knees
Sticking out from my nightgown
Too young to believe the worst within us, but
Old enough by nine
