Her screams would split the night, more often than not.
One of us would usually call the cops,
who would haul her big ponytailed husband away.
In daylight, we could see the bruises he’d punched
on her face, prints of his fists on her thin white arms.
We’d try to help her. We’d try to get her to leave
the guy — we were that alarmed. But the fights went on.
We’d see her drag her packed belongings out
of the house, screaming divorce. Or he’d peel out
in a heat, spitting gravel and laying his black tracks down.
But always, after time, and under a glow of stars,
we’d see her convertible with its little black top
pulled down, and his low blue car hulked in the drive.
There would be no sounds a passerby could hear,
except the trees rubbing against the house,
and the dark inhabited rooms quieting down.