LADIES' TUESDAY NIGHT BOWLING LEAGUE

For days you sit in the house
with the shades down. Diapers
rot in pails; the litter
you have married flourishes
in every room, trailing you,
reminding you.
At night your husband,
the former high school track star
pulls you toward him again.
His body, a cage that will
release neither of you
rises above you,
each bar in place.
You whisper to the runner
imprisoned there,
to the woman who once loved him.
But your voice has become soundless;
his breathing fills the room.

Only on Tuesday nights do
you remember how to shout.
Your blood infused with
Coca Cola,
your body like a bow,
you release the ball, and the force
of all your quiet days
explodes in the lane.
One after the other,
the docile pins fall.
A strike! A spare.
Again and again, you need
to see them tumble,
collapsing like the high walls
of the house you have built
around your life,
around your shouts of victory.

first published in The Painted Bride Quarterly