Christmas Day

I have decided to be happy.

We sit playing Boggle at the kitchen table.

I shake the cubes in their plastic cup

and my husband begins to rage.

There is a coffee stain on his T-shirt,

and it is somehow my fault.

Like a great open mouthed bell

I sway back and forth,

toward and away

the wrench of his rage.

He won't let me speak.

He won't let me touch him.

I sit down when he stands,

button my collar

when he yanks

the shirt over his head

and walks away.

I bear the silence.

Like the earth's relentless

seismic shifting,

I am fluid and molten at the core.

And though I never said I was the Goddess,

I am surprised that my strength has gone.

Soon, I think I won't even be human.

I'll become pewter,

some ancient artifact

dug up centuries later,

deemed pointless

except for the miracle

of its endurance.

I will be melted down then

until bubbling, molten,

awash with light,

I will be dangerous.

I will be free