To the son or daughter who saved
my life when I ended yours:

they say the most dangerous time for a
woman is when she leaves her abuser.

Ain’t that some shit. She finally, finally musters
the courage to save herself, and that brave,

brave leaving could be the very thing that kills her.

The FBI have an assessment that they use to predict
the potential for future violence in a relationship.

The day after he laid a loaded handgun on

my pillow for me to find, the proximity to where
I lay my head unmissable, like the bullet that I knew

was next (your father didn’t have a lick of poetry in him
and hated mine, but fuck if he didn’t set that scene

with poetic precision; I could name
that tune in zero words)

Anyway, the FBI assessment. So the day after
the gun, on the day I left with two

hastily-packed suitcases and both cats,
he scored 8 out of 10 probability for future violence.

The only thing that would have made it a 10
was if we had children, and then bingo: a perfect score.

But we didn’t have children, because
I took those pills in a Chicago clinic when you

were only five weeks of cells – a clump
of stardust trying to become human

before I sent you back to the stars.
There are so many ways this story could have

gone, none of them were happy ever after.
I was asked yesterday if I was childless by choice,

and I had to say Yes.
Yes. I chose this.

I couldn’t save us both, and I chose me.

~