I carried my bed of roses home,
where they teach the children
not to be, how to kill chickens
before they hatch and where the slap
of a hand cuts deeper than the sharp
of a belt. Mother was busy, as always
cooking curtains into arguments,
Stirring the pot of radiator music.
Father’s chair smelled of damp
dinners, he, on his knees, picked up
the crumbs of you’ll be a man my son.
I came in from the yard, hid all the locks,
shook out the mildew, laughed myself
out of my shackles and flew.