QUICKENED
by Sandra de Helen
You throw the rat poison
bottle out the door, down
the hall. It doesn’t break.
By the time I retrieve it
see the skull and crossbones
you have barred your door
and gone silent.
Scared, crying, but tiptoeing
I run outside the house,
peer in the windows for
a glimpse of your dying body
or maybe your prankster self
having a good laugh on me
like I thought you were
when Dad died.
That was no joke. Is this?
I can’t take it no more
you said before you
slammed the bedroom door
and sealed your promise
with a tossed vessel.
A darkened room, no
sound. Do I dare call
for help, risk your wrath
in exchange for my peace of mind?
Just because I wish you dead
doesn’t mean I want to be an
orphan. Do you really want to
die? Isn’t drinking enough?
I’m 14, I don’t know. Sometimes
I want out pretty bad myself.
I call you aunt and uncle.
No answer. I take this as an
omen, that no call is
necessary. In the morning
you slide the dresser away
from your door and are
resurrected.
If it were up to the Mission, heads would roll
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We don't much like these guys.
They don't much like us either.
5 hours ago