A History of Violence

This too shall pass my unborn child chanted as it danced dizzy circles around me. The all too familiar coolness of the floor stung a little.

Last night, I saw my father in his chair; rocking back and forth as he absent mindedly rubbed at his knuckles. That familiar view of the after effects of a tough-love exchange.
You’ve got to go there to come back is what my grandmother said out loud from her watch spot in the corner. You have got to go there to come back

I woke up to sobs
I woke up to bright lights
I woke up to disinfected air
I woke up to a muted sterile incubator and find you holding on to your knuckles, eyes red with dread. 

I wake up to a promise
I wake up to a new lie
I wake up to responsibility 

That’s life in your hands I thought I heard my grandmother say.

You are my morphine
You might feel groggy I think I hear the nurse say
We were…burgled…I think I hear you say to the corner my i.v stood in
Did I see you move towards my foot? Were you about to squeeze it?
I reach out to hold you but you turn away

That is your life in your hands I thought I heard my nana say.