Waiting for the Cops and After                 
 Maria DiLorenzo

               
 I thought his face over
 and I thought
 spit.
 A gesture to send him off in a cab
 Maybe a squad car, away 
 from my poor, poor sight--

 see, he is a war image I’d rather not--
                                      
 his face makes me squeamish,
 ticks and ticks like that homemade grenade.

 Gone the last calm 
 when he held me close to his belt
 like a shotgun. The dog tag sky

 swung back and over. I knew his full name. 
 Chalk light engraved letters. 
  I knew his full name and residence,
 how his mother too early went into labor.

 Hands came later
 abusive as the car crash.
 I am wreckage

 his, his, his scrap
 wreckage. 

Borrowers of the junk yard
try to piece together these parts
that wait so long to be of good use.

I’ll stay spare,
wait for sirens to explain
the danger. We wait for formal
blue suits to arrive. We wait

pulled apart. They make us formal
again those cops—they didn’t find me
delicate enough. I responded no
to any broken bones, fractures, coma.

A bruise and a bruise
shaded outer thigh

I scare easily at him touching me,
those handprints on my skin.

He went free--
                                      
what little soul.
 I stayed back. Stood keeping track
 of the air.