In the end, what we were given
was not only violence. Take,
for example, my collection of dried
peonies, the thumbed buttons sewn
back to my blouse, the top-drawer
filled with rings. I sometimes idle
in the remote memory of their adam’s
apples, their waggling tongues. After all,
there is still what came before—that
pleasure; there are still the places
that dress, that hair, that toothy
smile took me. This before all
the doorknobs began to loosen
themselves inexplicably—before they
fell off into my hands.