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.
