Where He Belongs

Tomorrow, I will apologize

for the things I haven't said

yet.

I can see it—

that small collapse around the eyes,

but anger weighs more than regret.

I hold patience in one hand

and my temper heavy

in the other—

trying to discern who I am,

by searching beyond the voice

of my mother.

My father leaves.

The front door clicks—

the strike on the shell

before an explosion.

Time ceases to tick.

The moment fractures,

leaving everything broken.

Its shards are shot

into every memory,

dream, and achievement.

The future is lost

and starved, in part,

for the now that it needed.

My mother prays.

She prays and sings—

her hands lifted from the pew,

tears falling, heavy.

I wonder what this means.

Repentance? Confession?

Things becoming steady?

Maybe this will keep.

Maybe, when violence knocks,

she will hide the key.

No—I continue to shrink.

There's no backseat sanctuary.

Just hands raised—to me.

My son fidgets nervously.

He doesn't tremble.

He doesn't attempt a slow retreat—

fearing how I might respond.

His shame is simple.

My heart stands outside of my chest,

disappointed with his own wrongs.

I pull him back to me, where he belongs.