Two days before your seventh birthday,

our father throws Mom into a wall.

I hide you in the bathroom, knees curled

to chest in the tub, because that’s

the only thing I knew to do when I was

your age. And just like then, I still haven’t

learned to call the police, paralyzed

and pitted numb. We watch holding

hands as our world becomes derangement,

becomes all-consuming forest fire.

The unavoidable sounds of serrated voices,

the way they find us even in the dark.

Brother and I learned how to make our

minds louder than the unraveling, the

bumps and bruises, but you only know

how to smash the pillow over your head

and howl. The one way I know how

to pray is in begging for your salvation,

for your ears and eyes to stop picking up

the crush of plaster and mother tears.

I wish you had more years to process this

the way we did- more time to find a

comfortable place to sit in all this inherited

grief. One morning, our father watches you

pour his shampoo down the drain. He holds

you by the ends of your hair, hisses, why did

you do it, and your brave baby mouth says,

I’m angry at you for hitting Mama. He eats your fury

like candied peaches, like it’s fruit juice sweet

and doesn’t mean shit. My baby, my baby,

you’ll always be stronger than me. It was stitched

in your little fingers, in the dark of your curls.

My baby, I want you to scream with all your might.

I want the power of your shriek to burst

the walls of that goddamned house. I want

you to reach for the phone when I couldn’t.

My baby, I want you to know this leaving isn’t

forever. I’ll steal you from this place. you’ll see

me again, some night outside your window.

I’ll be reaching out my hand.

© Isla Cueva

Isla Cueva is a writer from Arizona.