Violence Domesticated

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Violence

domesticated Woman.

Pot Roast Sundays

tasted better

prepared

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.

 

Violence

domesticated Woman.

Sex was best when

she begged for life

at noon

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.   

 

Violence

domesticated Woman.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Hitek)