shari

I, as one who
has never allowed
myself to be
struck
cannot understand.

but when i hear
that your lover
bruised your child
and busted your lip
my breath catches
and i shake
my head
when i hear that
you left the door
open
when the police
dragged
your lover away.

you can paint
your war and your
anger on my body
and you can linger
forever in my fear-seeping
vessels, my adrenaline
syrup, in the ooze
in my veins and
hidden nooks
and crannies of
bulge and clots
inside me yes, you can
remain and haunt
and bruise, and stab
but never
but never
can you touch that
which sprang from me
if ever one were to spring

sacred and small
rage and roar
but that wolf
that demon
would never
step back in through
my door.

but I, who has never been
struck
who has never stepped into
a blow
cannot ever understand.