—SOMEBODY’S TELLING ME Sutures It’s time, and so we go down like felled redwoods. The ground rumbles, branches break, phone wires rip and the blueberries bushes catch fire. There’s nothing to save us and we don’t deserve rescue anyway. God is napping hard. The lions are loose and famished. You threw the first plate, chucked it at the wall as a test, the sound like a car crash or the planet exploding. After only a few minutes, the floor was inches thick with shards, yet you removed your shoes and walked across it, painting the chunks of our wedding china the color it should have been all along, your blood a thick red juice. If you’re not going to kill me, I’ll do it myself, you said, like an overachiever who sets goals, like a pundit or a prophet. It wouldn’t have mattered if there weren’t kids involved. You shouted their names, as if remembering the ghosts of their presences hovering in other rooms. You found Band-Aids and gauze. I got big buckets, a whiskbroom and dustbin. We fixed you up and mopped the floor and spritzed the air with a scent resembling lemon meringue pie. When the kids came through the door, you looked up from your magazine and I muted ESPN. Then one of us asked, “So, how was your day?”