I Bring My Chin to My Knuckles
By Laura Hoffman

I being my chin to my knuckles and lean toward her
She giggles and pulls away, plays tug of war with body language
It’s one of those evenings when worry festers behind an illusion of calm

A year ago today, she says
And the images flash before me
he slipped a sleeping pill in her drink
and ripped her open like a present in the upstairs bedroom
before she could blink, bra unsnapped, belt unhooked
stripped of dignity
stripped as he pressed himself against frail porcelain bones
branded her body with a heavy wrought iron
and his heavy dirty breath

she had guesses when she woke up sprawled across scratchy stained bed sheets
I met her for the first time that morning when I swung open the bathroom door and found
Her pale as a ghost sprawled across the bathroom tile
So confused, she was so confused as to what had happened
Pieced it all together when they took a baby out of her three months later
So she could stay intact

It’s one of those evenings when worry festers behind an illusion of calm
I can feel her remember
The weight of her scars are heaviest when she says absolutely nothing
Just flinches as my hand grazes across her collar bone
or twitches as I tuck her hair behind her ears

she ties back sienna locks
slicks them down so her hair cannot be called wild
we cuddle and look at each other, try to see past the silence
and her recollection of that night
Avoid the fact she is once of millions who has sewn her own wounds shut
with bitter thread
I trace the scar across her belly with my fingertips
Memory doesn’t make a sound as her tears navigate skin
Over the stretch marks, between the scars

She wipes the salt from her eyelashes and abruptly jumps up
I know, lets go get ice cream
Her grin is stiff
She snaps her lily-white fingers
I’m okay, really
So the sab winds around the pavements curvatures and we drive
Fill our bellies with chocolate brownie ice cream
And she forgets again as she relies on the thinnest
stream of lies to get her through the evening in one piece, intact