5.19.13
The noise of rain,
then the noise of forced air.
I'm stirring onions, mushrooms and wine
slowly, my arm too raised,
my hand dangling
as if it is not mine.
Manic depression is talking in the next room,
asking how many times per day
the blocked number calls.
I don't know, dad,
says Noah.
I want to save him with this meal,
but I know who I am.
Poor children
who are fed and taunted.
Love, damage;
no chaperone between.
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