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My father shouting at me loud enough to wake my dead grandfather, the red air is frightening     I try not to tremble, it makes him worse, he hits me with a strap -  but his anger soon passes Tonight the moon seems old, if it cries it can cry for me because my sadness is deeper than tears and the old man I will one day be    will remember this. -- My mother,  happy in her freedom    swims naked in the bathroom Swims an olympic record from the tap end to the end where we keep the shampoo. Beneath the waves she can't hear the crashing and shouting from the next room. The bathroom light is  turned out, the moon fills the bath with its soft-milk. -- Sad is my sister crying tears like wet feathers. Crying for a pain she wants to, but can't feel. Her tears are starved birds that never learn to fly. -- My sister cries the guilt of an expert, My mother tends herself with soft lotions, My father, a helpless bystander to his own rage, wears spectacles passed down by his father. -- Tonight the moon is my quilt Heart-beats are held and all is muffled The rage is the sea My skin milks the light now. MChallis © 2014 www.martinchallis.com
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Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Milk the Light
My father shouting at me loud enough to wake my dead grandfather, the red air is frightening     I try not to tremble, it makes him worse, he hits me with a strap -  but his anger soon passes Tonight the moon seems old, if it cries it can cry for me because my sadness is deeper than tears and the old man I will one day be    will remember this. -- My mother,  happy in her freedom    swims naked in the bathroom Swims an olympic record from the tap end to the end where we keep the shampoo. Beneath the waves she can't hear the crashing and shouting from the next room. The bathroom light is  turned out, the moon fills the bath with its soft-milk. -- Sad is my sister crying tears like wet feathers. Crying for a pain she wants to, but can't feel. Her tears are starved birds that never learn to fly. -- My sister cries the guilt of an expert, My mother tends herself with soft lotions, My father, a helpless bystander to his own rage, wears spectacles passed down by his father. -- Tonight the moon is my quilt Heart-beats are held and all is muffled The rage is the sea My skin milks the light now. MChallis © 2014 www.martinchallis.com
martin-challis
Written by
martin-challis
Australian
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
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