There is that moment just after the moment

your father beat you

or someone else in the family

your mum or one of your siblings,

when the air is thick as

custard, and hot like

custard and overfed

with terror and grief and pain

no matter who took the blows

the nettled air stinging pricked skins.

Temptations of the good

cluster like scabs on the skin

something to pick at while

the spirit of hate

drips off the walls

and screams in the minds

of the begotten by hate.

What could be done

What could be elsewhere

What life could be lived

What you cannot think

but the ludicrous guilt

of having Not Pushed a Chair In

or a Hair on the Tiles or

the Table Not Cleared Quickly Enough

or the multitude of arbitrary

Wrongs that Inhabit the House

like unseen lice or bacteria

known only by the violence of

exposing and dealing with them.

That moment of loss.

And the next morning

at breakfast he’s all smiles

And queries about plans for the day

And heartiness with tea

And scrambled eggs

And swollen lips.

Jumpy minds don’t want

to answer or even

acknowledge what he will not

other than the day will roll on

to other days like it

and misery will gestate

to either revenge in some

impassioned bloodbath

or hard chosen freedom.

Either carries great weight:

one a trial and the hot glare of media

the other a life of dealing and departure.