Snowballing

There’s sunshine with blueberries each morning   I sing

fortissimo most evenings while we cook   This is a poem

about joy   It’s not neat   My ex-husband had a rare condition

that made him feel fire ants were biting his face

eyebrows first   then the rest of his body

It flared up many times each day   The only way

to calm it was to wash   He had bottles of water

in the car for this purpose   He was convinced

that objects were cursed  because when he touched them

the itching started up   He wrapped these things

in plastic bags   phone   wallet   documents   I helped him

to hide the problem from clients   Our house

was a Turkish bath   steamed up from all the soaking

of  skin   clothing   backpacks   cameras

I tried to be kind but sometimes wasn’t   Paper and fabric

were breeding grounds for fire ants   My books were all cursed

We couldn’t hunt for second-hand gems

or browse antiques   My coats were a problem

Worst was my black Ted Baker one   thick wool

belted   bat-wing sleeves

That  fucking coat   It’s in my new wardrobe   five years

since he walked out   —1 am—   but still it seems

polluted   Near the end   everything I owned

was infected   I couldn’t touch him and if  I did

in error   he’d flinch   as though a toxin

had brushed against him   get up with a spittled

I swear to GOD and spin to the sink

He’d splash his face   because my hand

touched his   He told me three times in nine years

that he loved me   I had to ask   He wouldn’t go

to the doctor because when he did once try

in LA   the doctor thought it only dry skin   He was

sensitive to smells   He’d cover his mouth and nose

when he was next to me   It snowballed over years

so that secretly    —we were so good in public—

flopped on the sofa   I came to see myself

as a sort of slug   It was important

to pretend to be confident   There’s not enough here

about blueberries   And did he ever   once or twice

hit me?   Throw things?   Bruise?   I forgive it

or try to   He wasn’t sinister   not like

that other man   the one who tried to rape me   in a high room

an office   I’d thought   not an apartment

I’d been looking for work

when it happened   He threw me   rag doll down

and was unshiftable on top of me   A cannonball

on my pelvic mound   I’ve never been so aware

of that bone   I couldn’t kick or twist   Por favor

didn’t work   I thought he’d strangle me   saw

what a murder victim sees   I was a gnat

in his web   I sometimes think I’m still

as dispensable   I don’t know why

he allowed me to run   to that Catalan

backstreet sun   pulsing   clammy

and spinning   I still had the nous

to note his address   —33 San Vincenz—   but felt

stupid   Estupido    I looked up the translation

in the back of the police car   I thought

that the word would help   He wasn’t in the first

photo ID line-up   but was in the second

Ecuadorian   square faced   I took the Metro

to the far side of the city both times   and again to meet

his lawyer   The police had little English   My Spanish

was poor but I was trying   His lawyer asked me

how I ran from his apartment   Was the door unlocked?

And I knew that what she meant is “Was I free to leave whenever

I chose?”   Yes   she was a woman   his defense

I was free   not locked beneath him   not pinned

to the sofa   bone on bone   Our bodies aren’t legally

double bolts   I left when I chose to   left behind

his deep eyes   grizzly hair   Would I still

pick him out from a line-up?   There were photos of his wedding

on the mantelpiece   He had a toddler in a pram

a little girl   and wheeled her to a bedroom

She didn’t cry but must have listened   I think

I was lucky   Sometimes   I catch myself wondering

where he is now   if we’ll meet   This is not

about my ex-husband   his itching   It’s about

separate hurts balling together   a handful

of snowflakes that tumbled down a wintry hill

and after that another hill   another   until they were

a monstrous boulder   encrusted with clods

and rocks   blackened   besmirched   I came

to see myself as a slug   I wouldn’t lean in

to whisper with friends in case my breath was rank

He said it was   No one has agreed   Still

this is miles from blueberries   I sing  scherzando

unchained   when I cook with my partner   We laugh

at terrible wordplay   Nerdplay   Our life

is truer than this poem but I’m trying   Like most families

mine has tales of fierce women   who suffered

but had to get on with it   and kind   tender men   People

who coped and can’t tell me how   They must

have sung   gossiped   mucked in   There are many

ghosts in this poem   I’m one of them   As I write

there’s a dunnock on the bird feeder   It’s been flying

back and forth   from the hedge   I wonder how they manage

little birds like that   with sickness   Life’s cheap

A gnat in the web   Pointlessly

living each second in joy   The sun falls creamy

on the table at breakfast   Milk splashes up the sides

of my bowl   I think we should sing  fortissimo

even if it’s complicated   Lately

everyone’s been taking a stand   This poem

has given me nightmares   The room smells of coffee

cinnamon   blueberries   two and a half scoops.