in the room of my adolescence,
my father is hurriedly scanning
the newspaper
as if
it’s the bandage
of a clumsy
arsonist.  by the light
of its burning,
my mother
closes
with a hot
iron
wounds
I wasn’t
there for.  my brothers
are like two
kinds
of darkness,
intuitively

****.  none worry
my wax filled
****.