fading hope that I can win.
Watershed
Things were bad. My husband had moved from the bedroom into the part of the house that had been occupied by my now long-gone boarder. We were still married, but I could no longer stand to be in the same room with him or to eat at the same table. I was walking around in a world of hurt, trying to make sense of all the awful things that had happened over the course of several incomprehensible weeks.
As I was pouring out my troubles to a friend one day, she asked me if I knew what was going to happen next. I told her I had no idea.
âYour husband has propositioned a friend, and she turned him down. Heâs propositioned you, and youâve given him the same answer. What do you think the chances are that he might molest your daughter?â
It was a question that shocked me to my very core. Having been molested myself at age seven, I was terrified that the same thing might happen to my daughter. I have no proof that it ever did happen, but when my friend asked the question, that outcome wasnât at all outside the realm of possibility. I could not, in all honesty, say, âAbsolutely not! Such a thing could never happen!â Because, somehow, I was afraid it could.
I left the restaurant then and went home, where I picked the fight that would propel my husband out of the house. It wasnât hard. All I had to do was take a little bit of the anger off the top. Mount Saint Helens was waiting underneath, ready to do the rest.
WATERSHED
The quarrel, once enjoined, immediately escalated
To atomic proportions, leaving us
No alternative but to retreat
To opposite ends of the house.
There, in separate rooms, we contemplate
Our wounds and know the breach is made,
The die is cast, and the Rubicon,
Although not altogether crossed,
Is lapping eagerly around our necks.
Moving Out
Most of my friends and relations hadnât been at that fateful T-ball game to see my husband on his hands and knees. So when I started divorce proceedings, several of these well-meaning folks showed up on my doorstep, Bibles in hand, to tell me that the unbelieving spouse could surely be saved by the believing one if Iâd just shape up and pray harder. The problem was, by then I was beyond praying.
I still loved my husband, but I knew that I couldnât save him and save myself, too. I wrote âMoving Outâ in the afternoon of moving day, while he was loading his boxes into his 1956 GMC pickup truck and getting ready to drive away.
MOVING OUT
I will not be the price of your redemption.
I will not pay my life to ransom yours.
Survival is the thing that I must cling to.
Itâs you or me now. I have made the choice.
There are those who say abandonment is sinful,
Who preach at me to end my errant ways.
Their threats of condemnation hold no terror.
Hell canât be worse than living through this day.
Reproach hangs heavy as you pack your boxes,
Separating ours to yours and mine.
Donât let me stop him, God, donât let me stop him.
Donât let me weaken. If I do, Iâll die.
The Collector
I cannot tell you the exact date my husband moved out. More than thirty years later, I know it mustâve been a Tuesday night, because I wrote the next poem, âThe Collector,â after coming home from grocery shopping on Wednesday morning. Pushing a cart, I had raced through the store with tears streaming down both cheeks, not buying all the things I used to buy for him. Iâm sure people who saw me in that state must have suspected me of being an escaped mental patient. And how, you might ask, do I know for certain that it was Wednesday morning when I went grocery shopping? Easy. Wednesday was double-stamp day.
I believe this poem is a benchmark. It shows how low I was in early March 1980. Please remember that, other than that one unpublished childrenâs book and my furtive bits of scribbled poetry, I had yet to do any serious writing. I am preparing
Watershed
Things were bad. My husband had moved from the bedroom into the part of the house that had been occupied by my now long-gone boarder. We were still married, but I could no longer stand to be in the same room with him or to eat at the same table. I was walking around in a world of hurt, trying to make sense of all the awful things that had happened over the course of several incomprehensible weeks.
As I was pouring out my troubles to a friend one day, she asked me if I knew what was going to happen next. I told her I had no idea.
âYour husband has propositioned a friend, and she turned him down. Heâs propositioned you, and youâve given him the same answer. What do you think the chances are that he might molest your daughter?â
It was a question that shocked me to my very core. Having been molested myself at age seven, I was terrified that the same thing might happen to my daughter. I have no proof that it ever did happen, but when my friend asked the question, that outcome wasnât at all outside the realm of possibility. I could not, in all honesty, say, âAbsolutely not! Such a thing could never happen!â Because, somehow, I was afraid it could.
I left the restaurant then and went home, where I picked the fight that would propel my husband out of the house. It wasnât hard. All I had to do was take a little bit of the anger off the top. Mount Saint Helens was waiting underneath, ready to do the rest.
WATERSHED
The quarrel, once enjoined, immediately escalated
To atomic proportions, leaving us
No alternative but to retreat
To opposite ends of the house.
There, in separate rooms, we contemplate
Our wounds and know the breach is made,
The die is cast, and the Rubicon,
Although not altogether crossed,
Is lapping eagerly around our necks.
Moving Out
Most of my friends and relations hadnât been at that fateful T-ball game to see my husband on his hands and knees. So when I started divorce proceedings, several of these well-meaning folks showed up on my doorstep, Bibles in hand, to tell me that the unbelieving spouse could surely be saved by the believing one if Iâd just shape up and pray harder. The problem was, by then I was beyond praying.
I still loved my husband, but I knew that I couldnât save him and save myself, too. I wrote âMoving Outâ in the afternoon of moving day, while he was loading his boxes into his 1956 GMC pickup truck and getting ready to drive away.
MOVING OUT
I will not be the price of your redemption.
I will not pay my life to ransom yours.
Survival is the thing that I must cling to.
Itâs you or me now. I have made the choice.
There are those who say abandonment is sinful,
Who preach at me to end my errant ways.
Their threats of condemnation hold no terror.
Hell canât be worse than living through this day.
Reproach hangs heavy as you pack your boxes,
Separating ours to yours and mine.
Donât let me stop him, God, donât let me stop him.
Donât let me weaken. If I do, Iâll die.
The Collector
I cannot tell you the exact date my husband moved out. More than thirty years later, I know it mustâve been a Tuesday night, because I wrote the next poem, âThe Collector,â after coming home from grocery shopping on Wednesday morning. Pushing a cart, I had raced through the store with tears streaming down both cheeks, not buying all the things I used to buy for him. Iâm sure people who saw me in that state must have suspected me of being an escaped mental patient. And how, you might ask, do I know for certain that it was Wednesday morning when I went grocery shopping? Easy. Wednesday was double-stamp day.
I believe this poem is a benchmark. It shows how low I was in early March 1980. Please remember that, other than that one unpublished childrenâs book and my furtive bits of scribbled poetry, I had yet to do any serious writing. I am preparing
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