04-20-2015, 10:36 AM
Senior year (If only my 18th birthday was 14 years away rather than 2 months past)
1.
Sunday, 2:03pm,
my father breaks the shower faucet
for the third time this month
my mother drags her body up the stairs
mental exhaustion wears on her eye sockets
their vows ring in her ears
he throws a wrench at her face
but its blocked
by my father's drunken aim
Sunday, 2:05pm
my sister leaps on spot
her legs still crossed
on my bedroom floor
she is not met with an iron tool
but my stare
of both embarrassment and pity
fear lazily strikes itself across her face,
panic is barely noticeable,
the angry words and drunken slurs
were nothing less than habitual.
Sunday, 2:07pm
my mother's body slams
against a wall or a door
the thump is dead
it mocks her
Sunday, 2:11pm
I rip the bathroom door from its hinges
imagine the firm handshake
my father once showed me
I lumbar over the threshold
stand toe to toe with Goliath
I am David
I have come with neither slingshot nor stone
my father's crutch is my savior
he is too drunk to throw anything at my face
but not drunk enough to be conquered
Sunday, 2:19pm
my mother and I part
as if he is Moses and we are the Red Sea
he half tumbles down the stairs
whisky becomes lead in the blood stream
Sunday, 2:37pm
the blue Subaru
shifts and submits under my father's hand
just as my mother has done so many nights
the car lurches backward
a diagonal course
those marks will scar the grass
for years
Sunday, 4:01pm
my mother's vocal cords have seized
her body hugs the memory
of my father's driver's seat
the warmth of the blacktop
a better husband
than my father could ever be
2.
Sunday, 4:57pm
my lips shift in tandem
with my vocal cord's vibration
diaphragm expands and contracts
I need to cringe at the drone
the officer's voice
mixes, so irritatingly
with the phone's
electrical buzz
shallow breaths between
automated responses
supplies just enough oxygen
so I cannot forget tonight
Sunday, 5:28pm
I open the French door
the familiar sound of suction
seems less nostalgic tonight
my bare feet tango
around the missing deck boards
another project my mother thought
could fix my father
she is a part of the blacktop now
the sun illuminates her umber hair
the grey strands bow toward the light
I pause quickly
will I be that beautiful when
the cool March breeze is the only
thing in this world
willing enough to touch my skin
1.
Sunday, 2:03pm,
my father breaks the shower faucet
for the third time this month
my mother drags her body up the stairs
mental exhaustion wears on her eye sockets
their vows ring in her ears
he throws a wrench at her face
but its blocked
by my father's drunken aim
Sunday, 2:05pm
my sister leaps on spot
her legs still crossed
on my bedroom floor
she is not met with an iron tool
but my stare
of both embarrassment and pity
fear lazily strikes itself across her face,
panic is barely noticeable,
the angry words and drunken slurs
were nothing less than habitual.
Sunday, 2:07pm
my mother's body slams
against a wall or a door
the thump is dead
it mocks her
Sunday, 2:11pm
I rip the bathroom door from its hinges
imagine the firm handshake
my father once showed me
I lumbar over the threshold
stand toe to toe with Goliath
I am David
I have come with neither slingshot nor stone
my father's crutch is my savior
he is too drunk to throw anything at my face
but not drunk enough to be conquered
Sunday, 2:19pm
my mother and I part
as if he is Moses and we are the Red Sea
he half tumbles down the stairs
whisky becomes lead in the blood stream
Sunday, 2:37pm
the blue Subaru
shifts and submits under my father's hand
just as my mother has done so many nights
the car lurches backward
a diagonal course
those marks will scar the grass
for years
Sunday, 4:01pm
my mother's vocal cords have seized
her body hugs the memory
of my father's driver's seat
the warmth of the blacktop
a better husband
than my father could ever be
2.
Sunday, 4:57pm
my lips shift in tandem
with my vocal cord's vibration
diaphragm expands and contracts
I need to cringe at the drone
the officer's voice
mixes, so irritatingly
with the phone's
electrical buzz
shallow breaths between
automated responses
supplies just enough oxygen
so I cannot forget tonight
Sunday, 5:28pm
I open the French door
the familiar sound of suction
seems less nostalgic tonight
my bare feet tango
around the missing deck boards
another project my mother thought
could fix my father
she is a part of the blacktop now
the sun illuminates her umber hair
the grey strands bow toward the light
I pause quickly
will I be that beautiful when
the cool March breeze is the only
thing in this world
willing enough to touch my skin