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.