Children From the Aftermath

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I was six 
When safety died.
My father 
Home from war 
Would drink whiskey 
Straight from the bottle.  
Veins full of firewater, 
Filled and spilled, 
Fighting off his pain.
My mother locked the door 
To keep that pain outside.
She did not want her children 
To experience his fears.
Our house, a fortress, 
Bastion of Love against 
All Nightmares of the world.
When the rumble of 
The Pounding came.
My sister Corky, 
One year older, 
Was the first to cry.
The Pounding loud 
As any storm 
Our house 
Had ever known. 
The Great Oak Door 
Began to splinter
As we huddled 
With our Mother, 
Nearly smothered 
Against her breast.  
Three hearts as one 
In fearful rhythm 
Matching the Pounding 
In our ears. 
Pound for Pound 
Until the door 
Gave way to 
Anger’s Thirst.
Split and ruined, 
As my Father,  
Running from his War,
Crashed into Hope, 
Pleading with 
Each Curse
For Respite
And Relief.
The door 
Between his world 
And ours 
Now splintered, 
Broke, 
And Gone. 
Giving up and 
Giving way 
As he had done
Years before,
Losing the battle
Between himself
And the Horrors
Of War.
With the death 
Of that 
Oak Door 
Came the death 
Of our safety 
And the Destruction 
Of a Family
That was
From then,
Forever lost.

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