In the morning
Mom is years older.
She intercepts me before
I reach her bedroom.
I ask if Daddy’s home, and her “yes” is a relief—but
there was an accident, he looks pretty bad, and
may get sent to jail. Dad may go to jail.
Gravely, I nod, call to him through the bedroom door. His voice
drips with sympathy for me having to see him like
this as I step into the room.
He is so sorry.
Black floss, like
Mom and I used when we sewed
cross-stitch, zigs and zags
across purple-and-yellow eyebrow.
Frankenstein, says a voice in my
head. The air in the room
swells so thick, is too dense to
breathe. Dad’s pleading voice breaks,
and Mom shoos me away from
my handsome dad,
my handsome dad,
my handsome dad.