Picking Up Her Broken Pieces
In a faraway land called Afghanistan,
I hear her break his wine goblet,
shattering the bowl to tiny bits.
Bouncing, ricocheting off surfaces,
broken pieces scatter to places unseen.
He bellows, blames, name calls her.
She screams back.
Her voice, strong and bold echoes through the walls.
Every crawling ant stops.
He uses his hands as weapons.
Slapping, smacking, spanking – more times than she can count.
Bent on changing her beautiful looks, he leaves an imprint on her face, neck and shoulders.
She kicks hard, between his legs.
He loses balance, falls face down on one broken piece.
She lifts him to nurse his wound.
Instead, he spits at her.
Pushes her towards the glass.
Glass flies back, strikes his eyes, and blinds him.
No more words are exchanged.
No more action takes place.
I hear her picking up her broken pieces.