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WEATHER FORECAST
Today our father is giving us new names: my beautiful first son, my beautiful second son, he says, my beautiful daughter, my one and only beautiful daughter. This morning, which he calls today, there are no demons swirling around his head, his hair is full of flowers, his breath is sweet with words, his eyes are lucent. We sit in a circle, no trapdoors, measuring our breaths, keeping still with this gift of our new names. On another day, much like today, he summons us to the parlor, he shutters our windows, he deadbolts our doors. He scratches the walls with his screams, and his face is locked up in a spasm. He covers the room with his threats. We each choose a corner; we shield our bodies, and use our arms, our frail arms. The hard part is waiting. We count the seconds left on this fuse that he has lit. It is evening, and it is coming close.
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Copyright ©2015 Joseph Zaccardi |