a.d.

you erupt in the viscid dark, pulsating still
from the sound that amputated
you from your dreaming, the necklace he brought you
buried like a lyre string in your soft neck, its garnet
heart a testament of your father’s restored proximity;
relief that settles like mist in your mind, like snow—

your mother’s raised voice cleaves
you anew, discordant as a door hinge, her ire
pressing against the dampening walls, your mind abyssing
mechanically into your vilest fear: she will make him
leave again, estrange him
back into the lustful arms of war,
& then his terminal howl that shatters
the house from its ribcage, that lacerates you
from your bed towards his violated body,
his withering voice, even though you know
it’s already too late, you’re ten years too late—