My father knows only that
Thre is a humid readiness
About my mother,
Her hair messy, lying in ringlets
That smell of copper.
Now she is going to get it,
He says.
He strikes her once and she falls
Back from the medicinal, calloused skid
Of his right hand.
Now he is balancing on top of
Her fallen body with his left leg,
His right suspended in the air
As one might balance on a log.
She says, "Don't."
For a moment they are caught here
In the spit of craziness.
He lets her up.
They walk to the kitchen.
They sit at the table
In a convalescent indolence,
A queer lassitude.
He pours a curl of cream into her tea,
Turning it a tarnished color.
She drinks, hooking her fingers
Around the cup.
He eats a small cracker.
I stare at them.
They are shameless
And in a great solitude.

- Natalie Kenvin