That’s Enough of That
I have no shoes. There are no words for my mouth. There are no words to make things not happen.
My dad’s knuckles are little stones. Blood tastes like blood. Pain is not bright.
Mom says, You’re not doing this.
Today Mom’s strong. Today she’s fierce.
The first shot takes me in the eyes. I can’t see.
Now the nose.
The chest. The belly. The eye again.
I wing a flat, jagged rock at him. It flies like a Frisbee. Bone flashes. Dad bleeds.
That’s enough of that.
He tries to push past to the bathroom.
Mom says, I told you not to.
She has a knife.
I think it’s time you left.