Father on the wall

                                              FATHER ON THE WALL
 
It seemed that the sound of the gun should have made the house fall into dust
Should have damaged the world beyond repair
But it didn’t.
 
Though it has echoed in my mind for an eternity
as a chaotic nightmare, gutted but still whimpering.  
 
(Did you know I had to roll him off my baby sister?
I wonder how much of the red crazy seeped into her body.
We will only know after the damage is unfixable)
 
When the bullet came out of the back of his head it painted the walls
Blood and brains and bone.
Some sort of primal abstract painting. “Starry Night”
 
(Why was it so important to him to make me watch this?)
 
I have carried these pieces of his body on/in me forever it seems.
Sometimes, in the red of night, I can still hear my screams.
 
 
1990
Dean