He raises his voice when you drop a plate,
water from the sink dripping-soap bubbles
foam on your wrinkled skin.
Shrapnel on the floor, you wait.

His skin is darkened from long days in the sun,
he labors dawn to dusk, forming callouses,
rough on his tarnished skin.
His grip is strong, you shrink away.

Peel away the fingers which puncture and
bruise the delicate skin-rosettes forming
in deep purples and blues.
You can only wear sweaters, it is summer.

The children in the next room begin to rustle,
they hear and whimper in fright-you try to
quiet the commotion.
He busts your lip, you remain silent.

In the dark, in the quiet after the storm,
you long to burst out the back door into
the mosquito filled night.
Your fears enter, he would find you.

He sets steel traps in the woods to grasp
the innocent feet of animals and steal their
skin to display on the walls.
He owns many guns, they lie loaded.

In the shadowy corner the barrel leans, gleams
in the yellow light of the overhead bulb-you stare
intently at it, finger twitching.
"Mommy!" you hear, and break gaze.