Don't talk to me that way,
I yell across the room.
My words louder and sharper than I mean for them to be.
Don't talk to me at all.
A door slams somewhere
in my house and in my heart
and I exhale, deeply.
You are a fire I must extinguish.
Let me draw you closer to me with my hands, my cool calm hands,
the touch of my fingers as they outline the strong curve of your jaw.
Calm down and let me fix you.
I draw a bath and sink
like a heavy stone to the bottom of the tub.
I hear you outside,
the heavy crash of metal objects as you thrash them about in your rage
at me.
I laugh.
My mother used to tell me when I was a child
not to antagonize,
the swish of my hips already telling at ten years old
who was the boss, really.
It's a lazy laugh, not a defined ha-ha,
but more of a smirk and a snicker and a knowing eye roll.
The kind you hate but find appearing all the time,
my sigh the soundtrack of all of our arguments collectively.
I arise soaking and dripping, sweet smelling
to put the rice in the pot,
to prepare the meal.
When you come back inside your face is flushed, and red.
You are angry.
Your feelings from earlier in the day have not dissipated, only simmered
and you are at a rolling boil.
Fire to water.
But I have forgiven you, and have forgotten the words I yelled,
the cruel and unkind things, they've slipped away like water down the drain and
I put the rice onto the plate onto the table
and you eat.
