Homeland


by Marissa Glover


 

Sometimes

it helps to think

of the relationship

as a house, a place

where your heart feels

at home until it doesn’t.

 

When it’s time to move

on, it helps to remember

Carrie Mathison running

from a hail of bullets

or the truck that’s

gunning for her.

 

Carrie doesn’t stall,

doesn’t wait around

to see if the driver will

change his mind at the last

second, turn the wheel

or hit the brakes.

 

Carrie hauls ass.

And if she finds a bomb

hidden in the closet

behind her black jeans

and slinky tank she saves

for manic nights at the bar,

she doesn’t stop

 

to pack a bag. She sprints

downstairs and out the door,

hoping to reach a safe enough

distance before the explosion

knocks her off her feet.

 

Sometimes, it helps to think

of the relationship as a house

and inside the house is a bomb

and you don’t have time

to figure out what’s happened

or decide what to take—

 

there’s only time

to save yourself, and barely

so you leave everything behind

like Carrie does, hair trailing

after her as she flees.

 

In her after action report,

Carrie is asked to explain

why she left the door open

when she fled, why

she didn’t grab her keys.

People assume

 

she had something to do

with it, was somehow involved

in the plot to blow up her house

or that she won’t be able

to stay away, won’t know how

to let it go.

 

Sometimes, it helps to think

of the relationship as a house

and inside the house is a bomb

and there’s no need to close

the door on your way out.

 


Marissa Glover teaches and writes in Florida, where she is co-editor of Orange Blossom Review and a senior editor at The Lascaux Review. Marissa’s work appears in Rust + Moth, SWWIM Every Day, Okay Donkey, and Whale Road Review, among other journals. Her debut poetry collection, LET GO OF THE HANDS YOU HOLD, is forthcoming from Mercer University Press in 2021. Follow Marissa on Twitter @_MarissaGlover_.