Decide for Yourself
Sunday mornings At the breakfast table: “Where’d you get those bruises, Wife?” “What bruises?” “There. On your arm. Both of your arms.” The dark purple of your skin Echoes the noise of the litany: His complaints On and on last night. Too old now To call you, To ask for water, To stop him To keep him away From you, I listened. I waited For you To subdue His drunken ire By apologizing: “I’m sorry.” Silence came. The creak of stairs And bed springs Followed As the argument lay exhausted Between you. You survived. So did we. By morning, It never happened: “I don’t know how I got them.” You took us to church So we might know God And make our own decision About him someday And so he could have Time To himself, A break from us.