The Chirping Smoke Alarm
I was so sure the batteries in the alarm were bad.
It never beeped, it only chirped.
It chirped when you slammed the dog against the bed.
It chirped when you hit your fist against your head.
I pushed the test button twice, when I left you and
went to a hotel.
When I told a friend.
But it never beeped.
Maybe there was a volume dial on the bell.
I may have turned it down.
It chirped the day you grabbed the steering wheel.
It chirped the nights you chose to fuck me dry.
I even tried to warn you that the alarm was going off,
that someone would hear it.
You laughed and told me there was no alarm.
That if there was, it was my job to turn it off.
I worked so hard then To cover
shrink
deaden
numb
The source of the noise.
Because if it wasn’t an alarm, then it was just
Me.
Trinity Saldana is a writer whose prose and poetry expose the nerves beneath traditional marriage and intimacy. She writes about the slow erosion of closeness and the mold of loneliness that grows inside shared bedrooms. As both witness and narrator of these stories, she confronts the broken promise of marriage as safety and the moments it fractures into control and domestic violence. She uses everyday items to describe the aftermath.
She is a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist based in Washington State, USA. She is currently completing a chapbook and an anthology concerned with the enduring effects of trauma. Her website is http://trinitysaldanapoetry.netlify.app
