Fearing the chronic angers of that house,
pushing every feeling out
The stool, standing tall, under my feat, the seat
Holding me high, eye to eye, with my Father’s
My bed, safety lately, where I’d rather be, alone/

The rocking chair creaks as
Plantain chips crackle and wreak in an oil sheet.
Table cover creased, arrangements around
The feast. The yelling begins and will not cease.

And small hands folded in lap, while
Tears leak out both eyes, slowly
on the right and left cheek, left to weep.
Wanting so much to move,
and rain outside fell too.