Pot Roast Sundays
with broken ribs.
He loved her hair so much that he’d take greedy handfuls.
I still see her, slumped over the stove, cooking Sunday dinner,
bruised, and bleeding into boiling pots.
Split lips were all that wept in front of him. She saved her tears for me.
Sex was best when
she begged for life
when the kids were awake and watching cartoons.
Only we weren’t paying attention to the television—
we were holding each other, and swearing to each other
that everything would be all right as long as we stuck together.
And we grew up,
perfectly groomed for marriage.
© Kindra M. Austin