Poem by Leah
Browning • Photo by Gary Kapluggin
The edges of my anger
have been sanded down;
we no longer bump against them
each time we turn
in these crowded rooms.
It’s been months since I woke
to thoughts of suicide
(however distant and ill-formed)
and I have stopped blaming you
if the sky is too blue
or not blue enough.
We are hopeful, yet tentative
with each other after these long
winter months, wary of unfinished
corners that might still threaten
to rage forward and split us
when we are already bloodied and raw.
Our neighbor spends each weekend
outdoors now, pushing a mower
past one wall of our house. Inside
his garage, the tools are neatly ordered
on the shelves, every rake and shovel
hanging on its own hook.
Monday comes again.
I wake fearful, not remembering
that the sharp edges of my shoulders
have been rounded,
the clumps of my fists
smoothed into fingers.
Outside our kitchen window,
the sun’s anemic early light
falls on grass so green and perfect
that it looks like the set of a play.
All the house is silent,
waiting for my entrance.