The Break-In

alone in the house she
can't sleep, can't stop
her mind is racing, running
marathons of ifs and oughts
like they ran together in
06. Maybes outnumber sheep in
the pasture adjoining on
dreamland. A locust swarm of
whys and why nots plague the
cornfields. satin sheets in
a king sized bed, half full.
sheets tousled like, after
the marathon. victorious,
fulfilled, sweaty accomplished.

lying there in the dark alone.
waiting for sleep, for the
sandman to bring her a dream
he was the sweetest thing, at
first. in this house, these halls
they loved, fought, talked till
eight in the morning about the
ancient Aztecs (she was an Anthro
major, at the time). She hears the
refrigerator hum, full of only her
food now, no ham or pickles or
stupid, stupid sauerkraut.
she hears the night's song, wind against
windows. cold air on her cheek

eyes flash open, adrenaline flash flood
through the canyons of her limbs
cold sweat coats her pores.
mind flashes, hyper active, seeking
explanation, plans, defense, weapons.
This is their house, was their house,
and she will not let it be defiled.
sheets slide silently to the floor,
bare feet pad to the closet
door slides. over-sized bat retrieved,
examined, approved. A gift, from his
friend from the softball league (he loved
the game, tried to teach her. she hated it,
so boring and static). No time for
memory now, time for action.

she slinks down the hall, weapon raised
to ward off fear. she knows someone is in
the house, someone who should not be
can feel the temperature difference, smell
the fresh air. French doors, opened, did
she lock them? Light from the study.
a shape, a shadow, a figure, a body
crouched unwary, unprepared, distracted.
no time to see what it is looking at
she steps into the room, hesitates.
and swings, stepping into it (as he tried
to teach her so many times).
Connects with the side of his head as
he turns, eyes open, pleading for
forgiveness, finally, he came back.

and she sits on the floor, with his head
in her hands. And a carving in his hand,
the whalebone flute that he had been
examining when she struck. They had picked
it out together, in Nova Scotia, on their
honeymoon. Memories of better days, better
love intermingle with the blood on the
floor, coming from his head.
yolk spilled, smile fixed, tears flow
and mix with the blood and memories
i'm sorry, i'm sorry
it's all my fault, not too proud
now that its too late.