When her husband shouts

she thinks first of her elbows, the flesh tilled
to bloody underscores. Then of the scabs
crude across her drumbelly, and then
of the old floral nightgown that veils it all
so cleanly, has rendered even her
a smeared wandering.
There used to be words for this strife.
She rarely finds them now but they leave
their punctuation on her bed like laundry.
The night steepening, she gathers the pieces,
shuts her eyes. Pleads that tomorrow
arrives without

& The Dirt

as in I’m scared
not by how much I need,

but by how much I’m prepared
to wreck to make it

Quick Change

There is body in the coat closet in the hall by the front door, body under the bed in plastic bins, a pile in the garage by the recycling bin.