Unscene

It didn’t matter if I was present
to witness as the yelling escalated
to monstrous proportions, followed
by the sharp sudden slap,

and the mad dash to the bathroom
where she locked the door. I hear
the sobbing followed by his plea,
“I’m sorry babe. Please forgive me.”

I want to scream, defend her honor,
but I am fearful of being unmasked,
or at the very least, disgusted
for my allowing such an event to occur.

But this was status quo, like the yearly
migration of elegant sandhill cranes
that fly above our house in flocks
that sound like they too are crying.

Survival of the fittest sometimes means
remaining unseen, unheard, hidden,
and I freeze, crouched just behind
the sofa where it is safe to breathe.