MY SISTER REMEMBERS
the sharp, feral way our father spoke
to the maker of his children.
How his whole face became a mouth.
How he hissed and spat and
huffed like a hell engine. How our
mother became more chair
than voice, her whole body an opening.
An echo chamber. How he
said words we did not know but knew
were bad and would repeat
like gaudy hyenas to our cousins.
How we too became animals.
How she went limp as a snipped lily,
a wax doll going soft next to
the stove. It is not that my father yelled
and it is not that my mother
received his yelling. It is that we
remember them like this,
in tandem, bound forever with ribbon,
a call and response. It is that
in our minds, one does not exist
without the other.