Going Home

Violence is a real
thing for him, a palpable
twitch in the forearms, a need to turn the door
handle too hard. Some days
he stands on the deck, stares at the moon
cross-shot by cirrus clouds and the street-light
halos humming above asphalt-black rain puddles
and just breathes out.

Other days, he sits stiff in the easy chair,
ice melting in his drink, tries to let the headache
drain away into his stomach. Knows later,
he'll float, silent, to bed.

And others the tension never leaves
but sits on his chest like giant clamps,
turns his guts to strings wound to tight and when he closes
his eyes, he feels flesh bruising under his fingers.