By the time the police came

you had already educated me

on what I had done wrong. Sitting 

in a bath robe, disheveled, hair

pulled up in a bun, my pale

lips were not shaking but pursed

tightly shut. Thirteen years, I think,

into marriage and a day of fresh

reminders that I was not predisposed

to ignorance. You know

what you did Kim, you would say,

repeatedly; and I would reconsider,

again, what I might have done.

The email I sent to my online professor

was not intended to alarm but,

in retrospect, it must have been

alarming. I don’t recall its contents.

I only remember the sharp knock

at the door and the way

you greeted them with comments about

how I, the pale disheveled women

in a chair {who you freely

identified}, was fine. You had everything

under control; your expression

of sincere concern a mirror

to their expressions of sincere

concern. Three white men stage right

and me under a theatrical spotlight.

I felt older than my thirties

as you each discussed the word suicidal.

Was that in the email too?

{I know domestic violence was.} You would

explain to me the dangers of using

all these metaphors later.

You would explain I wasn’t a danger

to myself as you smiled to the officers,

waving a little behind them

as you closed the door.