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_.
Emerge Literary Journal 