truth of it

The phone rang and rang,
I held my bathrobe closed, chased down the angry words you
screamed and locked them in the bathroom,
stuffing a towel under the door -

I hear them pacing.

The snow is muffling the night, I light
thirteen candles on the three windowsills
(yes, one has an extra)

I light the night
on fire.

Which comes first?
The idea or the words?
I write down "beginning" erase, "st…"
backspace,
trip
        waaaaaaaaait
for autosave,
        read a poem,

listen to the words
gun
            and fierce,
contemplating the shrunken sleeves of my
pink bathrobe, not as nice as hers, I'm sure,
but it does the trick -

and we're back,

stupid,

my heel itches

and

I remember what I said today
about losing my patience

and how he told you he loved
my painting, though he never looked when I was
in the room.