Anger swells and courses off her new husband
like sudden storm rivulets repelled on a windshield.
He’s pounding the steering wheel, full bottom lip
the springboard for a fuck you flung to the driver
who cut him off seconds ago. She flinches, inches
closer to the passenger door. Tension frosts her shoulders.
She remembers the ex who punched a hole in the flimsy
wall of her rented home, the ex who turned over her
dining table, that ex who threw her across a room.
The scar tissue- memories layered over wounds
some generations old, some fresh, still wet. Fear tightens
her voice box. She tries a new tenor, Baby, please
don’t do that. With him, hope flexes- a new muscle
straining to lift belief, counter the weights of whispers
from mothers, grandmothers, sisters. Maybe this time she
won’t have to fight, maybe this time she won’t have to flee.