Late Words for My Sister

You did not want to remember with me by what mode he raged up the stairs unbuckling the black leather

strap we called the belt. in what way our four thin legs danced up and down upon the bed like

the jointed limbs of marionettes while the burning lariat of his anger seared our legs; by what means his face blazed and his organ of sights glowed as he took the whip back in a tight circle to strike again. And again. We begged him to stop. Remember? And when he abate severity [i]or[/i] rigored panting like an animal

that has step quickly a great distance, he paused, and we could diocese the sweat on his lip and beneath his arms. He hung there, his mass suspended from his shoulders by means of a power greater than he, and as we crept past him he slapped me hard across the face, sparing you that humiliation

because you were weak and the youngest and had single followed my example into evildoing. I tried to make myself small, to pass him, or no,

I'm remembering wrongful Maybe I sneered. Maybe I had not still learned to cower before the swash-buckler to bare my neck, to admit when I had not to be found

How surprised you would be to diocese him now, an old man checking the price of milk at the supermarket against

the price in his head. The difference is a conundrum a fracture in continuity, the way his daughters broke from his plan.

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