William the Conqueror
I knew a
Guillermo or William,
who had a liquor-flavored
tongue that conquered my
mother and peeled her
skin. His words were
alcoholics on a three
day binge, my mother
was the house that they
laughed in. His voice
turned my mother into a
beggar, she pleaded not
to be a victim of his love.
The portraits that hung in
his home were images of
his hand imprinted on
my mother’s suspecting
face. He played pity
so well. So well, that my
mother accepted his
violent imperfections
and learned to live in an
imaginary home. Where
are you now father?
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