She swept in with the morning sun,
used to being in control, expecting
a conjured insight to return
her disintegrating world to order.
She wanted words – words that could crush,
words to carve her man as hero and villain,
words to cut neat lines through her jungle
that seethed and crawled with the undiscovered.
And I had none, to her fury
as I clung to my chair, just holding on
as the bucking bronco jolted,
raged, all dark desire and desperation.
My diary, flung from the desk
flew past me to crash on the floor
and sent a shock wave of release,
a froth and bubble of healing waters.