May 12, 2009
When I come home,
the kitchen cabinets have been defaced,
with fuck you and its all your fault and a bunch of “x”s
carved in so gently that at first I don’t see them
as I unpack the groceries. I am still married,
wondering who could have done this.
My husband who jumps
in front of me with a knife,
whispering, I hate your ugly white guts.
I run out of the apartment and into the hall
and call 911 from the front desk where the doorman sits.
When the police arrive, my husband
is long gone but the apartment is trashed.
He has somehow slashed every wall
and taken a hammer to the tiles
that are all in jagged pieces
that go right through my shoes
and the policemen’s shoes too.
“Ouch,” they say.
And it’s time to change the locks
and cancel our joint accounts
and get a lawyer. And it’s time
for me to start all over again.
—Denise Duhamel, Hollywood, FL