Holes in drywall made by a fist

are uneven, erode. They leak—
steadily, steadily—dust. 
What arguments gave rise to them 
you ask—these craters pocking walls to the side of windows.
Holes make a living room appear askew, 
deranged. Whoever wanted out couldn’t get there.
Or maybe they were made to scare a lover—she
froze, amazed, the first time he swung
for the wall, jaw clenched & on impact 
the fight flooded out of her, limp
now, not even screaming, dazed,
taking in the concrete nature of her
fear, a dense & solid thing
she knows must fit inside her brain
despite its size, refrigerator weight,
its trick of slipping
into dreams she’ll have all week 
of dust, propelled in storms
across the base, the sure report
of her erasure—