My mother cowers on our tattered couch
her long black hair a stage curtain
My father looms, disco mustache,
pompous pointed collar. His voice knifes
her. Words so well-honed.
I am three years old, standing off stage
in Wonder Woman Underoos.
I taste my father’s resentment,
its oily slick across my baby teeth,
but my mother’s helplessness
melting cold and wet in my palm
prompts me to leave my post.
I step on stage, hold out a tissue
to dab my mother’s cheek. My eyes widen–
Surprising sting of her slap. Together
we watch tissues flutter recklessly
between us. My mother whimpers
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
What else can she say?
Only the lines she was given.