Confabulation Shovel

After Rumi's "I am so small"

The third time she fisted my chest Isaw stars, reeled slightly, didn't fall. AmI a punching bag hanging from my vows? If so,I was shaped for this. "There is nothing smallabout my forgiveness," I repeat out loud. "Iam softened by your suffering, I canhear your history in each smack—barelybruises." Because I'd practiced, I let her blows be,but the thud, thud made me stutter. I'd seenthis before—my shame-coated tongue. HowI cradle her knuckles, how she spits. CanI hold myself aside, separate myself from thislatest rendition of as a girl she'd endured greatsecrets? She'd slammed her mouth shut for love.Her spit spelled heal me. Would her stiff lips bemade supple if I tenderly took the blame? Insideme, all her unbending nest. Cottoned me,confused as clouds, whisked by her fists. Lookat my leather, pocked by her punches. Atwhat point would I break open? It's yourfault I hide. You're the reason I lie! she cried. My eyespooled, and what glimmered there—how theyfilled her hands with diet pills and cock. Who werethose parents who whispered never tell, forced her smallmouth to swallow words and worse, even now. Butwho am I, swinging in the shadow of the life theygave her—my heart synced to her jabs. Seeme spill out. My surrender an enormousstain on the floor. See me cleave to married things.