Daddy worked at night. The deeper ravines had No mother. Was somewhere else. Never explain. He would turn his face to the wall. Like looking at a locked facility screaming, fighting, biting, bleeding, spiting, scratching, throwing furniture, breaking all the dishes, challenging cops with guns. Was too consequential even for numb. Even for exhausted. No one was there for us. No teacher was there for us. The swollen lips, the bandages, while in ER, the medical student handling this case – me, I was now a case, advocating that my father face a violent end, that this so-called bent up sheer hatred unleashing wounds. Upon this life of hurt. No bucket of stones. No litany of laundry lists. I am hiding with the brooms, ironing boards, hot water heaters, summer’s stones that would that encapsulate bone-defense mechanisms not unlike a fortress surrounded by the real world of who gets hurt, and who doesn’t, it’s the Litany – Of It Spelling and Spilling Who Wins our own hinges – of confederate ideology thrashing about the room a whip, a whip.  Echoes of What To Continue to survive in, this demon place takes anyone it can into its mouth of incarceration. After all, you are like a risk that might go off. Your whips as catcher’s in the rye, all the fleeing out-of-here, trading time for money, trading seduction, trading religious vengeance for Rage. Legislatures hide. And Our Poverty will fester, Look At It. Daddy worked at night. Sometimes we were afraid. But we left him outside the cage of perpetuity. And brings to breath all silent things.