Fractures
Prying open a bottle of beer
with the bottom of a bic,
I think of my son: only one
year old. But if the skull
could talk, it would confess
the places of one hundred falls:
the corner of the coffee table;
the wet tile of the bathroom
after I so carefully washed
his feet, hands, genitals;
the smack of the screen door;
the concrete porch with its
red wagon and hanging baskets
of petunias. This is our own
brand of domestic violence.
The children don’t listen and I
become desperate. I slam my fist
on the kitchen table. They look
away. They tape green maple
leaves to the walls and rip
the violets from their vase,
then offer them to us like
some kind of infantile sacrifice.
Their mother and I pace the house
all night, sullen and silent,
refusing to speak to each other,
for one reason or another. |