2019

I met

the handsome surgeon

in 1989 and we were secretly

married later that year

in a courthouse

in San Bernardino

by a lady with a beehive hairdo

and false eyelashes

so we could stay in my home country while we planned our wedding

in 1990 which was followed by our honeymoon and the

mysterious disappearance of my passport

on our flight home from paradise.

In 1994 he worked on cadaver arms in the garage and

stored them in the freezer in the laundry room

but one of them had fingernails that were long, painted 

female

although that didn’t matter because the prestigious American Society for Surgery of the Hand

liked his resultant work and accepted him into their elite membership.

We had a child

and then another child

and then I had knee surgery

and he wheeled me, still attached to the I.V., past the objecting nurse to bring me home to

rig the tube over the sconce over 

our bed

so he could use the port in my arm to stuff a syringe full of morphine into my vein

to watch me scream and writhe.

 And then it happened sometime that night.

The morning brought children to see

Is mommy ok?

Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry

sit here, let’s read a story.

Let’s read a story it will all be okay, 
because

we have preschool and playgrounds

mommy-and-me art, 

swim and dance

And sometimes,

he took us on vacation

But then lots of money disappeared and 

lots of porn showed up.

Objections were met with a jut-jawed, muscle pumped, clench fisted 

my-way-or-the-highway response.

So I left.

But I could not protect the children because everyone thought that this was all fine

even after I filed the police report

which made things worse because he had me abducted by local cops and stuffed

into a looney bin an hour outside of town.

Then the judge gave him full custody of the kids for a job well done.

23 days later I was returned home in a cab.

One month after that I got my 60% custody of the kids back 

along with the worsening of my PTSD.

The children grew up.

I grew in a flat line.

One child left for college, and when the second child turned 18 we went on a trip.

Luggage borrowed from their surgeon father bore an airport barcode sticker from the month before with my name on it and several small articles of women’s clothing inside.

Anger fueled courage took me fleet-footed sticker in hand to his door demanding

“What the hell is this?!”

to which I received jut-jawed growl “I-have-no-idea!” door slam.

I left a message on the TSA tip line.

They did not return my call.

The 18 year old left for college.

I left the county.

Then I wrote a book.

And talked to lots of people.

And left a message on the FBI tip website.

And I would like to hire a lawyer but I don’t have the money to buy one

like he does

or the powerful friends

like he does

to buy or barter for Justice

or safety or peace of any kind.

So I keep writing it all down 

so that my blood pressure doesn’t rocket up

bursting capillaries on my face

as my income stream slopes downward against the reality of my rent

and I hope I don’t get evicted while I wait

for someone, anyone, to figure out 

Who?

Exactly who,

is this man?