It was raining that day,
the clouds hung low,
emptying their souls on
the barren wasteland
of our hopes and dreams.
I remember waiting for
you to come home,
I was so excited . . .
I was so naive.
I still can hear the silence
that filled the room
after I spoke.
"I'm pregnant," I said.
Your only response was
the cold, blank stare
that you reserved for your
opponents on the battlefield.
The weeks passed.
You came home later,
and later.
I could smell the whiskey
from across the room.
The weeks grew into months,
and I began to show,
and I tried to tell you
that I was scared-
that I didn't know if I was
doing the right thing,
that I needed you,
and that your drinking
was tearing us apart.
I can still feel the bump
on the back of my head
from landing against the wall,
and I can still hear
the connection of your fist
to my face as you
threw me down.
It was raining that day, too.
It rained for a week after,
as I packed my things
and found a new place . . .
And when I think about love,
I don't see your face . . .
I don't see your bloodshot eyes,
and your lipstick stained
collars. . .
I think of love and I cradle
my abdomen,
and smile up at the sun.
But when I look in the mirror,
I can still see the scar above
my brow from the garnet
in your class ring.

back to the poetry menu