Adam and Eve by Moeen Farooqi. Image Courtesy ArtChowk Gallery
Fridays he doesn’t show up at home
after work a lit cigarette falls from his mouth
to the living room couch
as he slips into sleep
she cooks dinner,
her stomach pinned by anger
and somewhere
my father cashes his paycheck
for a bottle of whiskey embers soak through the tweed
a slashed wound in the cushion
opens a sink-hole for heat
when my brother and I fall asleep
she watches the clock’s hands tick
slowly across the landscape of its face they multiply
form an army
lined across the foam
he gets home and doesn’t let the door
slap shut behind him
but the screen whines
against the quiet of the house and the cushions snap into flames
he goes downstairs drunk wanting to be left
alone to finish his bottle
in the flicker of television
but she follows him
asks where he’s been as flames climb up the curtains in a hush
spent fabric ashes to the floor
sitting on the couch eyes closed
he doesn’t answer as wallpaper pulls itself free
curls into the face of the fire
she starts screaming worthless sonofabitch
you ruined my life I wish you would die French doors explode
smoke-coated glass fills the air
crashes to the charring floorboards
~ Chelsey Harris
Chelsey Harris is currently in the MFA program at Southern Illinois University. Her work has appeared in Dressing Room Poetry Journal and Cooper Street, and is forthcoming in ‘Hope Grows Here: Stories of Resilience from Survivors of Domestic Abuse.’
