May I see you in the kitchen?”
The room your book group meets in every
Wednesday evening, a quarter after seven
because Sue’s kids are in gymnastics and
her husband left.
“Tell me about this hotel bill?”
The same room where you curled
into a rigid quaking ball after he
heaved a three-quarters empty wine glass
at your head–
The strawberry wine left pink crayon
stains on the egg-shell wallpaper you
couldn’t live without.
“Fucking her makes me forget about you?”
The room where the grey granite countertop
put Sue at the perfect height to enfold her legs
around his naked back receiving each
deep rancorous thrust.
“I need you to sign this paper…”
The kitchen where you sliced each wrist
methodically cutting away his every touch,
watching blood drips pattern in the sink.