The Dealer Copyright © Jen Overett 2011

The cup we watched him throw
(that he could not recall)
was the final straw,
the unlocking of our door to freer days.

For months before;
fear, a cold chill at my neck;
exhaustion at the anger,
its sound, smell and form,
at the teasing of the cat, of you;
but most of all the turns he took
to take it out on me, then you, then me,
while fighting for strength
from a sickening mind
to hammer flat his past integrity
down in the garden shed
where he stored, higher and higher,
boxes of beautiful things he’d bought,
and sometimes stolen, from fairs.

When the door to freer days unlocked,
it was late afternoon,
shadows throwing long
pale coffins on the lawn.

By the time I’d packed our stuff
it was dark, and we slipped
from the house, your hand in mine,
(he was hammering
out the back at the time),
It was a start. Then we drove
to my sister’s (your favourite aunt’s)
past the grey salty sea,
where we stared long and hard
at the crisp, crashing waves
piled higher and higher,
like beautiful things
that could not be bought or stolen;
and none of this was fair.