Antigone Poem by Mariah Srygler

Sometimes, very late
at night, the smell
of whiskey warms
your lungs and you
reach for him, knowing
his body won’t object.
You fumble in the dark
for his stretch of arms
and sigh, letting
his cigarette skin
sink in. Deep down,
your cells betray you.

You swear, every time
he comes home,
transformed,
that he will change.
You insist
when he throws his
house-keys
at your sister’s face
that all men
are like this: Dangerous.

You call me crying, sometimes,
when he has swallowed
something evil.
He tears
the front door
from its hinges.
He douses your bed
in gasoline and, match
in hand, he grins, chanting:
'Make me.'

You feel complete
when you pinch away
the flame. You feel
like a woman
when he swears
you make him
crazy.

You pull his numbness in close, knowing
he won’t object. You place an ear
to his chest, to be sure his heart’s intact.