to home (wherever that may be)

we shall be as a city upon a hill

the phone rang that cold november morning

and mother took her apron off,

leaving us alone in the kitchen.

my brother ate his gerber strapped in his high chair,

i stared at the porridge i couldn’t bring myself to eat,

a spatchula stuck in the frying pan on the stovetop.

the pontiac engine turned-over in the garage and,

in the gear carefully painted R in white,

mother backed down the pebble driveway.

father had been ill that winter,

but he went to work anyway –

mother said he didn’t love her, didn’t love us,

i covered charlie’s ears as they fought at night.

They said he died a peaceful death,

mother said it was suicide

(he didn’t love us, in gin-soaked breath).

i didn’t listen to mother when she said father was a –

a coward.

they took us away that winter.

they said she couldn’t raise us anymore.

i was young, but i knew that that place was never home.

10 Sept 2010 C.D.S.