I hold my doll,
Fluttering eyelashes
Curly black hair
Cewpie face
Francie I think her name was.

Hold up in my room
Tender age of three or thereabouts
Sense of terror
Vastly blown out of proportion
To my chronological age

Cover Francie’s ears
As sounds of rage and terror blast
From the living room.
Crouched behind my bedroom door,
Father in a drunken state
Railing at Mother again.

More than a score of years later,
Who knew the pickled apple
Wouldn’t fall far from the tree?