Violent Love

“Love,” she said, “write about love.”

“Love is cliché,” I say, “what is love?”

babies asleep in their bed
the door flings open after midnight
her husband enraged
she screams in pain and anger
doors slam, the house shakes
finger shaped welts raise up on her neck
her buttocks, purple and blue

she is trapped in a hell
a cage built of religious words of life
soaked with arsenic
served in a warm cup of tea along with
deceitful blessings of
“he really loves you”
patriarchy, an accomplice
this violence
called
Love