This isn't a poem for T, but he is in it, a little. T has recommended that now that we are separated, my husband and I meet weekly to go over "business." Our last meeting didn't go so well. T is part of the "they" and "them" in this poem in the last few stanzas. Sometimes getting divorced feels to me like getting raped... in front of an audience.

Weekly meeting with my husband

Yesterday
I cowered again
Inside
When he told me what I could and
Couldn’t do

I saw the grain in the wooden table,
Where we sat
The lines flowing around knots
And running off the edge

Outside he thrust
His finger in my face
And wouldn’t let me talk
It felt familiar

I am not here
Sitting at a table
Talking to this man,
The father of my children

Leave me alone
To grow again
I will burst from the lines
When he is gone
And sing arias to the roses

I see his tells,
His face growing ugly
At least to me
Because of my words
It’s my fault

I compile a list
Automatically
Of things not to do the next time
Of words not to say
So that his face remains safe
And I don’t have to flee inside
Again

I always see it coming
The way he tilts his head
From side to side
As if weighing two choices
But there is always only ever one

And they say I have to do this
Again, again, and again
I don’t know why
Tell me why

I have to face him
And dig through soil
That has lain undisturbed
For centuries

I planted a garden on top
But they don’t care just dig it up
And feel the shovel
Slice right through you

And let him watch your wounds
Let them all watch

I’m gone again
Inside
This feels familiar