Easy like Sunday morning

I am “Easy like Sunday morning”,

             or at least I am told to be,

but they create a panic in me,

              a whirling vortex,

their pomp,

                  their pretense,

                                           false hopes,

                                                               promises of love and happiness,

funny outfits and eggs over easy,

               gooey centers yellow as sunshine and

bright as the way

                      my mother screams

                                          mascara running down her cheeks,

my father’s hands

                   sloppily spilling the wobbly yolks I had

so carefully kept whole

                in my tiny hands,

the entire world,

                now running in black sticky rivulets

through my fingers,

                       as I hold her

                                            on the cold kitchen floor

waiting for the same hands

                          that hold me in church

                                                 and push me on the swing

to snap my chicken neck

keep me knelt on stone tiles

                 a disciple of obedience

                                          remind me how this family works

but he forgets

though she be little,  

she be fierce

and I will never be easy

and I will always hate

                                         Sunday mornings