It stalked off for a year
then staggered home one night,
no apology, forced open the door,
heat like a slap in the face,
glass crashing the floor
to settle in patterns like parched mud,
lit cigarette flicked through the air
flashing the turpentine-doused trees,
limbs popping in fury,
flames fingering the walls.
In time, shame hides despair like sunglasses,
the flood of what should have been,
the weight of not speaking up,
the fear of no escape, the bay of blood-
hounds leashed to a pole,
the guilt that, somehow, it’s our fault.