Father comes home
leading the way
into the darkness
he does not offer me
his hand
he's occupying the door frame of my
bedroom (the first one on the left)
he is a large man
powerfully built
my intuition knows
something's off
I quiver
in my winter bed:
I am the leaf dangling
at the end of a bare branch
from his tall shadow
I must turn away
I'm afraid
what will happen?
his elongated form
bends forward
menacing against the wall
arms oddly extend from his boxer's broad body
I hear a heavy shuffle-dragging of feet forward
the blanket wrapped around me is
no cocoon
a percussive puff escapes from beneath
my blankets
(an inhalation from a make-shift breathing hole)
"Butterfly..." he hisses in my direction
I hear whiskey in his sidewinder words
(his slant-eyes have spied me)
my leaf shivers,
falls from the branch
I am now fully awake
in the early icicle dawn
doing what I can to prepare,
I brace for the heated lash of his anger
but
when the West Wind suddenly rises,
my Butterfly Heart knows
to fly away
to the another country of
high mountains
the place
beyond here
the place
of my birth where
I know
I will be free.
Copyright May 5 2015 All Rights Are Reserved By This Author
Meloo/Melissa A Howells straight from her Tilt-a-World
All Ideas/Poetry/Prose/Rants are the Expressed Legal Property of This Writer
