The First Flush and the Afterglow

I’d start with my dad, I suppose.
The one who made me feel afraid
most often in my childhood.
I’d put my hands about his throat,
restrict his breathing passages until
his flesh turned purple and,
tears running down his face,
a little light sits in the eyes begging,
pleading, asking to know why,
and then just vanishes.

I’d start in on my brother next.
Who tried to drown me when I was eight,
who held me down and beat me up
in front of our dad’s wife,
who looked the other way
and then said that it was my fault.
(No punishment for her, of course.
She punished herself years ago.)

I’d follow him home from therapy one night
and tap him on the shoulder and
just as he smiled at my face
stick a knife in it. Leave him crying
to understand why his little brother
would hurt him like that.

And it wouldn’t end there.
The aunt who looked the other way
despite knowing enough to make
occasional gestures, a barbecue, a takeaway.
The grandmother who thought that I
was only overfed when I
was crying out for someone’s, anyone’s ears.

It wouldn’t even matter that
she’s old and frail now,
her memory shot up like a house,
so now all she can do is love
as honestly as children do.
I’d rip out her heart and tear it in two.

And soon, or at some point,
all that is left would be an afterglow.
Fading, fading, and then gone,
until what’s left is what I’ve done,
and what I took, and what each person was.