The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Scavenger by Jessica Lynn Suchon

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content warning for child abuse and domestic violence

Meditation as He Fractures My Collarbone

It is hard to imagine him as a small boy on his mattress
                in the garage, pressing bruises with his thumb
                                as he says a prayer for each unbroken
rib and still-hinged socket. His body making myths
                of his father, building him up brick by brick,
                                the way young boys do when a jaw
is too splintered to form forgiveness. It is hard to imagine
                the walls he was thrown into, drywall gritted
                                between his teeth. It is hard to imagine
I’m the first woman he loved with his palm pressed
                to her throat, skin plum-dark, capillaries like shattered
                                cathedral glass. I imagined it: his mother
framing family photos, wanting something to cover the shadows
                her husband knuckled into the walls. She must have prayed
                                for a better son, knew he would remember this
and never crack even one fragile thing. At some point, he stopped
                and held me, said that he did not know how to love anything.
                                But he did, and chose not to, and did not apologize.