Air Space
by Alison Stone
When my neighbor’s tree
crashes through the roof,
allowing storm water to flood
our kitchen, his insurance company
has to pay nothing. Though
the tree’s roots tunnel through his soil
and the snapped trunk stands
on his grass, the part that broke
had leaned across the property line.
I’m a therapist – I understand
where we end up matters
more than where we start.
A friend of mine married
her one night stand. Another
wed her “soul mate”; lawyers
got the house in the divorce.
Today on my couch a woman,
incest survivor, squelched wife,
tells me she feels in her body
strength to leave. Her thin arms
lift as she speaks, fingers
reaching toward the light.
Published in Dazzle, Jacar Press 2018
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