What I Miss Most

The drywall cracks easily,

a satisfying illusion of power.

A frightened man-child in a warrior's body

lashes out,

hates the victim

reflecting back through my eyes.

Fear and confusion waft from my pores.

Paralyzing.

He smells it,

and his loathing deepens.

It is not the shoving.

Not the spittle that covers my face.

Not his demands that I conform,

subdue,

agree,

concede,

bend,

obey,

acquiesce.

It is not evading capture,

barefoot,

a babe on my hip,

a cast iron pan the only shield I carry.

Not the way he takes a four by four to my car,

pounding at it

while the demons taunt him with his smallness.

Not the way my heart pauses

when the workday ends,

my muscles already reading the sky,

already bracing,

watching the truck barrel down the driveway,

over a decade of reading his weather.

It is the breath.

It is the vortex of being trapped

beneath the force of his body,

his jaw so clenched his teeth vibrate,

the muscles of his forehead

reaching toward the tip of his nose,

contorted,

surging,

his eyes wild and unfocused,

his rage a black hole

pulling everything out of me.

I try to suck in a breath.

I cannot move.

I cannot escape.

My ribs will not expand.

My eyes cannot focus.

He rages and howls.

And I cannot breathe.

It is

my breath

I miss the most.