He opened his mouth, words smelling of death, and sundered
our life. I shrank from the brunt
force of their whip. My eyes contained question
marks and poison began to froth.
He’d come home, poured himself a beer with too much froth,
then settled into after-work life sundered
by a long ride home. I asked him an innocent question.
Knives were his answer and my heart bore the brunt
of their sharpness. Blades and words equal brunt
trauma. Sure, our marriage hadn’t always been froth-
y, but I had never questioned
its longevity, certainly never expected the sunder-
ing. Picture the Titanic splitting asunder.
That was me, tearing from the brunt
of his iceberg words. “Can I ask you a question?”
I said and a volcano of “No” frothed
from his mouth, white froth as hard as the brunt
of fists. I tucked my question away and watched our ship sink, sundered.