Having a Fight With You

is like being burned up

in a twelfth-floor elevator.

Or drowned in a flipped SUV.

It’s like waking with scalpels

arrayed on my chest.

Like being banished to 1983.

Having a fight with you

is never, ever less horrid: that whisper

that says you never loved me—

my heart a stalled engine

out the little square window.

Your eyes a white-capped black sea.