CONTENT WARNING: Domestic Violence 

I married him to spite my old lady.

Turns out I didn’t know what true spite was

‘til I was dripping nail polish on his glove.

He split my lip that night, so I painted

my mouth into a wound. Vaseline don’t matter

when he’s got no idea what he’s looking for.

He crowed as if he was in the ring while we rutted

like rabbits. Each month, I still bled, and his pa

scowled at me: a bitch that wouldn’t sling.

I used to think about putting rocks in my dress

pockets and strolling into the Salinas River.

I’d sit in the top window of the farmhouse,

nursing the high-heeled boot print on my thigh,

the bruise curved like a horseshoe. Looking out

at the mountains, I’d make pictures in my head,

hear folks chanting my name. I was searching

for someone, anyone but Curley. Thought

about Slim and George and Whit taking me

to their bunks, treating me gently as a hurt mule,

their rough palms on my back, sweating into the straw.

But the boys shrunk from me like the infected,

saw Curley in my shadow, went back to their cards.

Then one day, sore from nightmares of mewling pups

and blind mice, I found light spilling between beams.

The door was ajar, so I went into the barn.