Third Grade
SCREAMS OF TERROR,
ones I thought I would never hear.
I run to her defense,
and I see a site a child should never see.
A man with your mothers hair in hand.
Yelling at her,
threatening her.
Me, the child
all I could do is just stand there
and watch.
Helpless and wonder why.
beg him to stop.
He slams her to the ground.
This must be a dream,
but it’s not.
It’s my first restless night.
Ever since third grade.
And the next would be my restless night remembering.
The remembering turns into writing,
and the writing is a part of me.
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