Pillow Punching

A child, sweet with tears,
little places to go,
has seen the bright and
seen the dark,
weathered by each rain.

Lightning—
Lash my eyes, hiding
behind squeezed skin,
image burned in the back.

Thunder—
Storm in my room,
pillow wraps around my face,
below my cover of night.

A teen, tart with want,
more control over life,
has lost the bright and
lived the dark,
armored by his youth.

Screaming—
Peril creeps in.
Life again becomes too much,
too far away to cower.

Stomping—
Pound into my room.
Moisture gathers 'round my nose,
cords voice a muffled holler.


Then storms became beautiful:
away with the child whose head
was always buried in a pillow
like a kneeling, thirsty fawn.
Resist the bitter with a fist,
not to scream instead of tear.
Take it out on something soft,
with knuckles and rapid repetition.
Beat a joy into the pillow
used for so many years
to hold your breath.