Fist to the Face
Once
my husband
crept
up to our bedroom,
where
I was changing,
stopped
outside the door,
and
waited for the
perfect
opportunity to scare me.
He
likely grinned with glee
at
the practical joke of it.
He
wasn’t grinning
when
it ended.
I’d
felt the footsteps,
felt
the breathing,
felt
the alarm system tripping
in
my mind and body.
When
he opened the door,
he
got a fist in the face.
Because
when you’re a woman,
you
grow up assessing danger
everywhere.
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