the dance

i have been unable

to look you in the eyes

since he disappeared

in smoke and ash

since the phone call came

and i wept on the sidewalk

until morning

and now

you are here

your eyes

filled with the same

lackluster performance

and the heated effort

to push it back

drown out

the way he used to laugh

with a drink

drown out

the songs that he sang

with a dance

i would never say it

of course

that he is there

reflected in your pupils

like i know he is in mine

i only move in

holding you up

my hand against your back

you mistake my touch

for something closer

to the performance

a lie

a fake gesture

i only wanted

to say

it's okay

to break

so you can break

the dance continues

we fight the reflection

my hand never leaves your back.

EC © 2005

Scene 1: The Kitchen

the crack of his hand against her cheek propels her backward. her head snaps unconvincingly to the right, her temple smashing into the iron knob of the kitchen cabinet. it takes mere seconds to occur, but years, it seems, for her to slump to the tiled floor. a wave of alarmingly red pain washes over her. shes sways disturbingly, her hands flailing to find something to hold her upright. the wave finally overcomes her, her body falling to the floor.

from this angle, everything is white. everything is blank. from this angle, thought--they ride the tide of unconsciousness, falling faster with her toward blackness.

someday....my....someday...was that something else...what was it...

she fights the blackness, pulling her hands up under her chest, preparing to lift herself off the floor. all she can see is his scuffed, leather dress shoes. pacing, pacing, pacing. and then they stop. the red, searing wave is replaced by the familiar feeling of nausea. she clenches her jaw, locking her teeth, forming a barricade. her stomach jerks, the spasms coming faster. she feels the powerlessness of her body, but she fights anyway.

don't vomit. don't vomit. don't vomit. don't vomit. don't. don't. don't....

he is moving again. his feet come closer. he is shouting, but she can't understand what he is saying. she can't look away from his shoes. from this angle, everything is blank. from this angle, his words do less damage. he finds her unresponsiveness infuriating. he draws back his right foot. she blinks. before she can tell her body to move, to shrink, to disappear, the tip of his shoe digs into her abdomen, forcing her to curl inward, all the air contained within her body escaping through her mouth in a guttural cry that drowns his bellowing insults.

she reaches for something, her hands slipping, grappling with the sticky cleanness of the floor. there is nothing to grasp. she gives up, placing her cheek to the floor, trying to find the air to fill her lungs again.

oh god. oh god. oh god. please. please. please stop. please. stop. stop. stop.

"get up. we are going to be late." he walks away.

she watches his shoes walk away. as he leaves the kitchen, his shoes almost look polished. almost.

slowly, she begins to move. it takes more convincing on her part every time--to tell the arm to bend, to place the hand on the floor, to push her upper body up, to move her feet inward... finally, she is standing, her hands shaking, her breath still coming out in ragged gasps. she carefully smooths her shirt and tucks her hair behind her ears. these, the actions of normalcy that helps maintain some sense sanity.

already the moment has passed. she will get dressed. they will not be late.

I Know How.

i don't mind being alone. i'm comforted by silence and the sound of my feet shuffling across the hardwood floors. i know how to be alone. i grew up alone, huddled around books and papers, murmuring to stuffed animals to drown out louder, hostile voices i was too young to hear. i know how to be alone, but there are days...days when the silence is too loud and my hands are clumsy and incapable.

i'll slip into a dress, revel in the fabric as it brushes past my hips, sits calmly on my waist. i slowly slip my arms through the open spaces, working my hands down to the start of the zipper. at a certain point i can go no further. i wrench and turn, grimace and twist. just a few more inches and i would be complete, but i can't cross the distance of my back. i sit on the edge of the bed in frustration, finally ripping the dress off, cursing as i rustle through drawers, kicking shoes across the floor, and stomping indignation into the floorboards.

i don't mind being alone. i know how to be alone. i have thrown away all the dresses.