I start praying,
listen intently as Dad
comes upstairs with a groan and
squeaks the mattress hard
just once
and goes silent.
I can’t sleep.
I can’t sleep.
I can’t sleep.
I channel my inner Nancy Drew
boldly crawl out of bed
slip quietly down the stairs
past our names engraved
in the cement foundation
find The Mystery of the Smashed Fireplace.
The first clue:
chipped hunks of brick.
Look, another clue:
a rusty axe leaning
against the wall.
I slide
arms tight
around my faded yellow
sleep shirt emblazoned with
the false claim I am “Super Chick.”
I extend
one
cold
finger.
Trace it through brick dust
caked thick
on the blunt blade.
I turn to stone.
My father’s broken brain
has coated our new family room
in chunks of broken brick.
I reason
Dad must be so drunk he
doesn’t know what he’s doing.
But the next night
when the steady
*clank* *clank* *clank*
starts up again,
I pray this new
violent version
of drunk dad
knows exactly what he’s doing
and that he keeps what he’s doing
downstairs.