I had a vision:

my mother in the kitchen

knife in hand, chopping peppers

on a cutting board.

Father standing near her, mustache thick

circa 1996, veins like rivers in his neck,

screaming, both of them screaming,

hating each other, trying to yell

the other into oblivion. But they were

together then. There was a marriage. There

were two kids and a house and family dinners.


Now we take pictures on holidays.

Now we say, “Don’t forget to call.”

written at 10- something, in my bedroom, in Agoura Hills CA, on my phone because the internet is out again. 

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