Alison Daniel
THE BLOWN FUSE
If I look from the dining room to the hallway,
the lights are out, the shadows milder than uneasy
quiet. If I pretend the violin from Dexys Midnight
Runners we heard 'liars A to E,' when the glass
shattered red candle wax on the antique table cloth,
the one of top of the camouflaged buffet damaged
in my absence because you rummaged for clues
so obscure, nothing was left to the kinder idea
of memories being sacred photographs if all you saw
was a collection of negative obscenity. You thought
I had secret imprints siphoned from my phone
book to a sheet of A4 paper. You said the numbers
meant Michael was not my 12-year-old son's precocious friend,
Craig was never my cousin, Daniel, (you said was obviously
about sex), that my ex was not my ex even though
he's with Cheryl or Lyn or some bloody thing.
Then you paced too much, called me a slut,
and if there's anyone betrayed, honey, it ain't you
when you went on to say I should explain exactly
what sort of game I play. How by fingering my stuff,
you'd do anything to prove your questions have a face.
And they do. They appear in the checklist of warning signs:
"Is your partner physically violent? Jealous? Angry?
Demanding? Possessive? Threatening? Charming
with other people but different at home?"
Excuse me. You said the police didn't lay charges, that my
armband caused the marking but I'm talking about the grip
and shake bruising forensic photos prove,
the only hazard is you.
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