BEHIND THE BIG M

He told her she'd be beautiful when she was thirty.
He told her this as she wiped at her tears,
with an old jacket of his, that she was wearing.
She scraped her cheek on one of the many
zippers. But it didn't matter, her face was
swollen and red anyway. It didn't fucking matter,
she thought, Why is he telling me this.
They were parked in an empty lot of a grocery store
across the street from where she lived.
She watched him as he stared out the window
of his jeep, watching a tall boy herd stray carts in the snow.
You should have worn better shoes, he said.
Looking at her for the first time, looking at her feet.
Two tiny things in woolen socks and those hippie sandals
perched on his dash. No wonder you're always cold.
She jerked in her seat, slapping her hands down
hard on the dash, he could feel the sting.
Why are you doing this to me?
He would let this continue until the last shopping cart
was corralled and in place. Then drive her across the street,
to leave her crying in the snow on her back steps.
While he'd find someone to share a bottle of scotch with
to try and forget her face.

--Kim Kenseth