Roll Call

She didn't want him to forget.
About her, 
about the babies,
about the nights,
infected with verbal rabies.

She wanted him to remember.

Every single time she
stepped down,
waiting for him to step up,
while he stepped out,
and sat down
to drown
their lives in a bottle.
Every single time he'd hobble
up to the door,
shouting "whore!" and met 
her socket with a knuckle.
She wanted him to remember 
the buckle he'd used 
that one Christmas morning.
Cartoons and toys,
too early.

She didn't want him to forget.
So she found just the right carpet,
big enough to roll his body.