full moon as viewed from the window of an airplane attempts to explain a few things

it was nothing like the time she went
to Judy’s even though the dishes sat dirty
in the sink and no hot lunch ready
for tomorrow, laundry collapsed
all over the bedroom. it was beneath that,
and purpler. all the liquid in his gut
fouling, the wires in his arms
going static. when she screamed
another plate into the wall, its holocaust
of pieces each with at least one thumb-
sized rose, the pattern her mother insisted
was classier than the white he wanted, exploding
and he didn’t think the word holocaust at all, all
the letters congealing to a tumor the size
of Florida in his chest and he knew
this time he’d kill her. this time
there’d be no post-ER peas on the eye
in front of the TV mea culpa where that knot
in his chest unfisted into an older, more familiar
ache saying nothing you do is enough while she listed
again the reasons she should leave his sorry ass
while condensation from the peas marked trails
through her foundation and soaked the neck
of his old football jersey, the one she wore to say
she wasn’t going to leave him tonight, no tonight
the moon leaning through the window pushing
pieces of plate into some version of a planet
the man the woman the scream standing panting
in the kitchen the woman walking to the bedroom
starting a small fire with an old jersey for kindling
so he’d have to choose between them so she could walk
from the house a sharp piece of moon in her pocket
the scream lying naked in the kitchen take a taxi
to the airport buy a cheap ticket going one way
to somewhere now even the moon wouldn’t name.