Imaginary Quick Sand

Mama told me to go outside
and shut the door real good
so that I could play as loud as
I wanted,
but I knew she just didn’t want me
to see daddy take his hands
to her again;
make her eyes racooned again;
make his voice bark loud again;
because she keeps giving
herself bad medicine
with that needle when
he leaves to
see his lady friend.
“I don’t hear you playing,”
she yelled before slamming
the window
shut
and chucking the vase, or picture
frame, or whatever was near,
at daddy’s head;
Something she’ll replace while she’s
wearing sunglasses
in the supermarket next time
we go out to get daddy’s favourite
I’m sorry foods.
I dig my hands into the cool mud and
pretend its quick sand.
“Pull me under,” I scream
so mama knows I’m playing
and not
listening
to her cries and daddy’s booming
voice.

“Pull me under, quick.”

Gramps

“Stay off the grid,”
he warned.
“They’ll come looking for you,
crazy and careless.”
His fragile fingers trembled
while his warning rang with strength.

I kissed his forehead.
“Goodnight grandpa,”
I whispered as I slipped away from his bed
and out of the open door.

He sighed.