##demolition##

Our big square kitchen with

two sinks and

three doorways

spins

on my head

like a top and the

plates and glasses

fly,

while mom

sits in the den in

the fat leather recliner where

she has been curled up for

three days

crying

since dad told her in front of the psychiatrist

: I don’t love you.

and I haven’t loved you

for years.

He slithers down the back steps, going to

the barn where

his bloodline is

held captive-

stalled up with his stallion and mares and

unbroken baby foals.

The stinking rockdust and manure

attract him

more than mom’s

Estee lauder perfume.

I watch from the steps -- old enough to

wear a bra but

too young to run -- and

I feel the weight of our old house

crack to

pieces

just above my forehead, where my bangs,

sprayed and teased

will do nothing

to cushion the

crash and shock

of splintered wood and

china and

family atop my

young

screaming

body.