Dad’s ocean is washing away
The frame of our house.
I am on the second floor,
Riding the waters of Mother’s tears.
I plug my ears with my fingers
And hold my breath;
I still feel the ebb and flow of his rage.
The hypothermic water winds
Around my toes like nooses.

My body is a life vest
Floating on top of a row boat bed.
Its boards are rotten and creaking
Under my adult weight.
Our house is a fish tank. Everyone is staring
through our windows with bulbous eyes as
Rivers flow from our pains of glass.