Boxing

One more time

his thrice-bigger-than-my-face,

screw-driving hand,

motor-fixing,

calloused, swollen

hand smashes across my mother's dignity,

and I scream

pleadingly.

Have you ever woken up past midnight,

heart bouncing uncontrollably

like from a coffee overdose?

You clumsily curving through your bedroom door

to make sure that big nose is

snoring?

Have you left the bathroom

in the middle of a shower

with boxing in mind

because you've heard loud voices turn into fire?

Have you ever opened the door
to the smell of disinhibition and stupidity,

the fermented substances stronger than ever

dance their way across your house expecting forgiveness?

You're supposed to ignore the plates of food

that were thrown all over the kitchen walls

like abstract art just yesterday,

paint on canvas.