When you are small
And grow up with the sound of
Fighting as your food,
The bitter scraps of
I married you, Lucy, but that
Doesn’t mean I can stand
The fucking sight of you
You hear
Acrimony broadcast from
Open back doors
Over suburban streets
Beaming out of weatherboard houses
With radar precision
Like a bat or a battleship
You listen with your inner skin
The shrunken embalmed
Body of your yesteryear
Hears
I’m at my bloody wit’s end, Carl
This can’t go on
You fucking slag
I’m fucking sick of it
Don’t start that up again
If I’ve heard it once, Jill
I will knock your block off, cunt
Screw you, don’t you fucking dare
Are you out of you mind?
Do you hear yourself?
And you know you’re not
The only one listening.
eleanor j jackson 