Scars

Some trailers lost their skirting in the last storm,
baring an underworld of cinder blocks and flat tires,
old hoses in leaky coils, busted bikes, millipedes
and spiders gathering beneath the creaking of feet
and beds, the occasional crash of a thrown beer bottle,
shattered mirrors, or worse. My father nearly killed
my mother in our kitchen, the Formica countertop broken
at the corner where he brought down her head.

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