This expansive figure loiters afoot my bed.
His potbelly like a pig’s.
He is but a man: A child.

He covers my lithe
With a sheet on the ground
And summons his might
Swings a limb of his in front of my eyes
Plumped with age.
Touches it; asks me to touch mine.

I cried, I cried.

To my mum I cried.
She stirs me awake and asks my hand to hold
My palms swell at the weight of her own.

His,

My mother bends
Beats him too.
With a stick.
A son not of this lock
His sight not to be seen again.

I didn’t know then
I realise it now.