Give It to Me in Richters 

		For a month now 
		We have spent each Thursday afternoon 
		With a therapist guiding us 
		Through the topography of our marriage. 
		Your December voice accuses me 
		Of irresponsibility:
		Laundry piled in the utility room, 
		Dishes in the sink,
		A ring around the toilet rim.
		My therapist nods to signal my turn.
		I say you work too much, 
		You tell me "later" too often, 
		You touch me like your damn tools . 
		Silence. 
		She watches both of us and then scribbles notes, 
		Her pen scratching like a seismograph needle,
		And my hand trembles.
		I want her to measure the damage 
		And give it to me in Richters, 
		But there is no number 
		To gage the rips of a human heart. 

							Maria Shockley Erman