Broken In

now that its too late.
it's all my fault, not too proud

i'm sorry, i'm sorry
mixed with the blood and memories
yolk spilled, smile rictus, tears flow
on the floor, coming from his head.
love intermingled with the blood
honeymoon. Memories of better days, better
this one together, in Nova Scotia, on their
examining when she struck. They had found
the whalebone flute that he had been
in her hands. With a carving in his hand,
and she sits on the floor, with his head

forgiveness, finally, he came back.
he turns, eyes open, pleading for
She connects with the side of his head as
(as he tried to teach her so many times).
and swings, stepping into it
she steps into the room, hesitates.
no time to see what she is looking at
crouched unwary, unprepared, distracted.
a fear, a shadow, a figure, a shade
no broken glass. A shape silhouetted.
the summer night. French doors, opened,
she can feel the fresh air, smell
the house, something is not as it should be
to ward off fear. she knows someone is in
she slinks down the hall, weapon raised

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

whispers. fresh air on her cheek
she hears the night's song, wind
or stupid, stupid sauerkraut.
Pabst, ballpark brats and cheese whiz
refrigerator hum, empty without his
major, at the time). She hears only
the ancient Aztecs (she was an Anthro
in the morning about nothing, everything
they loved, fought, talked till eight
upon a time. In this house, these halls
he was her light, her knight, once
oblivion, void free of memory.
waiting for sleep, for blessed
lying there in the dark alone.

sweaty, restless misdirected
marathon. regret fills her
sheets tousled from un-run
in a broken in bed, half full.
the fat ripe fields. satin sheets
whys and why nots plague
dreamland. A locust swarm
sheep in the pasture adjoining
a better life. More maybes than
like they ran together in
marathons of ifs and oughts
her mind is racing, running
can't sleep, can't stop
alone in the house she