chandeliers don't look good
on the ground,
metallic arms crippled and
bleeding glass.
my father's footprint on
the base of the chandelier
did not look good.
my brother and sister picked
up the jewelled glass
and i hid some of it
under the couch for
later use. we crept around
the house, waiting for the
hulking sound of my father
as he put fists through walls
or chandeliers on floors.
the silence slid under doors
and it got right under my
skin where it itched.

later.

he sat on the couch and his
arms were a crisscross of
smiling red lines. i could have
done better, i said but did not say.
the look of his eyes, the thin
line of his lips as i asked him,
'you cut yourself?' he had and he
told me it was stupid. i
was so stupid with scars
like barcodes along the inside of
my arms. a bit of sylvia plath
poem written in white upraised lines.

later.

my mother told him to leave.
he begged and his voice was raw,
like flayed flesh exposed.
he told us to leave and we did.
i asked him, are you going
to kill yourself?
i'm not stupid,
he said.
none of us looked back.
he called us and the house
stank of gas. i could almost
smell it through the phone.
he was scared. i wasn't.

later.

the police told us he had
been sent away. his hands
had been in handcuffs and he
had sat on the curb with his
head bowed. we were calm
and they did not understand.
my sister watched the television
in the police station and
laughed along to a laughtrack
and her teeth looked blunt
and unforgiving.

later.

when i saw him i did not recognize
him. the lines of his face had
changed. this man was a stranger
to me. when i woke up at
night, shivering, i held myself
and remembered i had no father
to call my own.

later.