“You’re always fucking doing this to me
you fucking bitch
telling me when I have to go
I want my fucking respect,”
he said sitting next to her on Thursday
in the backseat of the Cadillac
we were getting on toward Memorial Day weekend
a time of sizzling meat and dancing feet
singing songs and smoking bongs
so I let his malfeasance slide
being hot-headed and Irish and all,
but on Sunday he shouted,
“Don’t die! Please don’t die!”
as his wife lay unconscious on the deck boards
the boy and his grandma, neighbors
watched horror-smacked through chain-link
to the mobile Nana’s hand ran
tapping the 9-1-1 into the smart phone…
the wife lays unmoving
believed dead
husband slumps back into plastic chair
what to do, he smokes and wonders
wife awakes
“How could you do this to me?” She asks
fifteen minutes after the savage strike struck
a left-temple blow putting out her lights
she staggers down the backyard stairs
into the house
police officers Moyers and Perez arrive
proud men of Northeast division
they conduct their interviews
neighbor says she only called
because she thought
the wife was dead
back at the homestead
domestic violence, all deny it
husband and wife, unified as one
in defiance
ain’t nobody here but us chickens, officer
and so the pigs roll
off and down the road
and here it all ends
as all their friends play pretend
nothing to see here
and nothing to do
but place bets
and wait
on when
the wife
will die


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