mothers joke about
hiding in the bathroom
to escape their children’s demands-
“mommy, i’m hungry!”
“mom, he’s looking at me!”
“mama, can i go outside and play? pleeaaase?”
i hid in the bathroom
to escape my husband’s glares.
when he walked into the room
his eyes never left me. disapproving,
full of anger and judgment,
exploring my face
to find fear and fault.
insults dropped on me
like successive bombs;
i could not take cover
from his barrage.
mothers joke about
hiding in the bathroom
to escape their children’s demands-
“mum, i’m tired”
“ma, she’s annoying me!”
“madre, are you coming out?”
i hid in the bathroom
to escape my husband’s strikes.
when his attack ensued
my back pushed into the wall
a headache unfolding.
my face slapped,
his handprint emerging.
my chest punched,
doubling over,
silently praying for protection.
mothers joke about
hiding in the bathroom
to escape their children’s demands-
i hid in the bathroom
not to escape my children’s demands-
but to escape my reality.
a rapid knock on the door
meant that i had been discovered.
a locked door sparked a cannonade,
so i kept my bomb shelter vulnerable-
penetrable and accessible to my attacker.
at times my hiding spot
felt like it was made of tissues,
so thin it didn’t seem to exist.
but sometimes my bunker
was infiltrated
by little feet, little eyes, little hands
seeking their mama-
telling her how “bootiful” she is
and how she’s “the best mama in the whole world.”
sometimes i needed to be extricated from this fortress
by the little lives that
gave me a reason to emerge,
even for brief, pure
innocent moments.