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.