The Wet Word

We were arguing.

I don't remember what about.

I remember the moment

their mouth twisted and a word came out

with something else—a fleck

of spit landing in the space

between us. Not an accident or wreck,

but the body making its case.

Not the words, which were sharp

and accurate and aimed,

but the spit—that was the harp

that made me understand

we'd pushed this far.

That we'd made each other

so angry the body had to scar

itself, had to uncover

what the mouth alone couldn't say.

Rage has its own moisture,

its own need to betray

the boundary, to pour sure

and wet and wild

into the space between.

I thought about leaving. I was beguiled

by the fact that I'd seen

the spit, the overflow,

the proof that this person

I loved had lost their show

of control. That the version

of them that could love me

was also the version that spit

when anger broke free.

And I stood there and let it.