What Might Have Been

He knew the moves of the argument
Like a black belt going for his third degree,
But every time he hit her,
She melted like wax.
He shook his burning hand and his anger,
But she was watching the cracks in the walls-
Branching and dividing from each other-
And every time they started,
She forgot where they were going,
Until the whole world pressed down on her,
And she started shouting poetry:
Stalking up and down the kitchen
With her shoulders squared,
Trying to drown him out so she could think.
She beat the rhythm of the words
With her knuckles on her thigh,
And he followed her,
Settling into a steady roar
That would do a helicopter proud,
As a hundred moving parts
All tried to get away from each other-
Flying like a maniac,
Just above the tree-tops,
In a war zone.


--Megan Morris, meikundayo@yahoo.com