As a Consequence Of
my brother stealing all the lightbulbs,
my parents live without light, groping,
never reading, never saying You are lovely,
shuffling from the kitchen linoleum to the living room rug.
The only pants my father wears are wobbling silhouettes.
My mother paints her face with distorted shadows.
One says rosaries to become a candle.
The other tries hard to be a Coleman fishing lantern.