My Father’s Breed
It’s four in the morning.
I’m ten years old.
I’m beating my mother between the mirror and the shoe rack.
The front door is ajar. A bridge
presses its finger to the frozen strip of water.
Snow falls over it gritting like sand on glass.
Both of us in our long night robes.
at her large breasts not to hurt my knuckles.
I slap her face like I flip through channels.