Rules That Let Me Kill My Father
My right ear scraped a buckle.
--Theodore Roethke
I woke up just as you were walking toward the door. When I said good morning, you told me to hurry up. I didn’t want you to be late, so I asked you to help me get dressed, to help me put on my pants. I held them up by the pockets as you needled the belt through the loops. Then you asked me why I had gotten out of bed, what the hell is the point. You raised your voice and pulled the belt tight. Too tight. I couldn’t breathe, only felt pain as you pulled tighter. My intestines fell out of my rectum and slowly slithered down both my legs—large on the right, small on the left. They soaked my socks. My stomach grew wings as it crawled out of my throat. It kissed both of your eyes before flying away, its esophagus swinging in the wind. You took out a handkerchief and wiped off your eyes. Then they were dry again.
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