Colin, During the Dark Ages.
My brother
could hibernate through
anything.
Even the nights of unmitigated fury
that expelled itself in blasts of white, frothy
spittle
from the corners of father’s lips.
He was a cocooned worm nestled
in the bed at the back of my room
while
mom held the cheap aluminum door,
maintaining our homeostasis,
shut.
On the other side
my father, a wounded creature
Hissing, crackling,
Insane.
would bang
until the vibrations shook my very breath.
Colin
never really understood
being fourteen
and
scrubbing out the night’s fury
that stained the carpet
in crimson ponds.
The smell of a bucket
of warm pink soapy water
and the
red that never really washed out
He would not understand the game
I made of it
blood spot, ink blot test
This one looked like a butterfly,
And this one A father and daughter,
And this one a bottle of pills.
This boy who brought home
matted and framed pictures from kindergarten
Crayon colored pleasant family,
crayon colored pleasant home
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