LeAnne Hunt

Conversations

1.

At the front door, he asked me what I’ve done today.
You have to be accountable. I’m accountable
to my boss, my husband said. I listed all
of the cleaning, the playgroup we attended,
board books read. But supper was not on the table.
He noticed.


2.

Do I have to tell you to do everything? A knife
by the sink. A toddler in the home.
He stood over me. I kept my head down
as I cleaned up cat vomit. The knife waited
for me to wash.


3.

I was sitting on the couch in a four-bedroom,
two-story home near a lake. You don’t want
to improve yourself…never try to learn. He said,
I try to better myself. You would be just as happy
in a trailer park.


4.

You are always groping me. You need to learn
how it feels. He showed me with his hands, inside me.


5.

I notice all the trucks, pick out the colors of cars,
keep within the lines. My daughter’s observations
You are always late…You don’t keep your promises..
You say you’ll change roll over me.


6.

It’s not like you were raped or anything, she says.
You are always so emotional. I continue washing
the plates, cups, and knives she’d left by the sink.


7.

You’re the mother, I’m the child, my daughter tells me.
I shouldn’t have to hold you accountable. But if I don’t,
nothing gets done. I have to be the one to teach you.
I remind her we need to leave, or we’ll be late to her father’s.
We’d promised.

LeAnne Hunt (she/her) grew up in the Midwest and now lives in Orange County, California. She is a regular at the Two Idiots Peddling Poetry reading at the Ugly Mug in Orange. She has poems published in Cultural Weekly, Spillway, Honey & Lime, and Lullaby of Teeth: An Anthology of Southern California Poets. She publishes a blog of writing prompts and apologies at leannehunt.com.