the truth of it

 

the phone rang and rang
I held my bathrobe closed, chased down the angry words you
screamed and locked them in the bathroom,
stuffing a towel under the door

I hear them pacing

the snow is muffling the night, I light
thirteen candles on the three windowsills
(yes, one has an extra)

I light the night
on fire

which comes first?
the idea or the words?
I write down “beginning” erase, “st…”
backspace,
trip
         waaaaaaaaait
for autosave,
        read a poem

listen to the words
gun
             and fierce
contemplating the shrunken sleeves of my
pink bathrobe, not as nice as hers, I’m sure
but it does the trick

and we’re back

stupid

my heel itches

and

I remember what I said today
about losing my patience and how he told you he loved
my painting, though he never looked when I was
in the room