Typical Sunday

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.


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