jefferson and sprague.

Like touching an electric fence without crying
the officer tells me too calmly to speak up,
he can’t hear the address I’ve just given him.
There is an earthquake
racking my body and I don’t know why,
the van is stopped a block and a half behind me
hazards blinking like hell’s gate,
there are children in the backseat, I hear.
My suburban-raised instinct tells me that
like the rabbit I am
it’s safer to walk on by,
but the phone in my hand doesn’t make me
a Good Samaritan,
I just wanted to be able
to sleep that night
the driver’s seat is clutching the woman, but barely
I choose not to listen to what they both are saying,
but silently wonder if
he had ever sent her flowers,
if she ever gently kissed him on the forehead,
I always imagined that dialing 911
would feel much more like strength
than these bricks on my chest
it’s in every word they yell
that I can’t quite block out,
a passerby made of stronger mettle than I
calls him disrespectful,
he replies like a wolf
interrupted while eating
that disrespectful means nothing
because she is his wife,
“Do you see any weapons, ma’am?”
I should have said yes
From here, rage looks like land mines
beneath the car-seats I can’t see
but know are there
the way I know my shadow in the midnight
it’s in the way that none of them cry
while she yells at a stranger
to call the police,
it’s been eternity fifteen minutes long
the officer is still asking me
how old and how tall they are,
what color their van is,
I tear my throat open not screaming,
come see for yourself,
my friends are standing at the intersection
not sure if they should watch
the way I feel like a hypocrite
every winter I watch snow fall
we never see the police arrive,
never hear the sirens promising safety
when it was done shaking me,
the adrenaline rested
at the bottom of my stomach
and the ceiling of my spinal cord,
even when I began
speaking with the law enforcement,
he could see only
something in front of him to be tamed
I bet she wore a wedding dress once,
I bet they used to say I love you
like promising safety to a bookshelf
in a burning building,
from a block and a half away,
her hair smells like an incinerator
there are melted letters
smoking on his fingertips
I don’t know who is holding the keys right now
who is feeling like the alpha
at this particular standstill
but the children are still not crying,
and the sirens
haven’t even started their empty promises yet.