1978,
the seventh anniversary of our marriage
we spent the night in a van,
on top of Brasstown Bald mountain.

He slipped a pistol under the mattress
and said we would be safe
from robbers.

Vandals wear many disguises
and the violated learns, eventually,
to recognize the mask.

2 a.m.,
wrapped in my own arms,
the scent of his whiskey on my neck,
bruises on bare trembling legs;
I stood naked before the moon.

In cold October air,
had to find my way back
to me.


© Shirley Alexander