Crimson Streaks

His wailing became chiffon

around his widening eyes and outmatched

the volume from the television set. Crimson

streaks flowed down from his index finger, the

same one he used to disparage,

degrade, devalue all the sunlight my mother emanated

from the deflating living room sofa.

With fizz from the frothy, foamy beers lining

his rugged lips, he scorned me

for having slammed the door on his hand

for having tainted the patriarchy

for having emasculated the household.

The scene went from

volcanic slews to

paused solar halos.

Imagine a five-year-old

reciprocating the violence

extending from the grown man's hand

like perennial weeds in mid August.

I remember the rush;

the scolding of the stern door

the swelling of small appendages

the sneering sonography of the room

by the startled ego. As a child,

I had single-handedly demonstrated

defiance against emboldened leather boots,

hair grease and the persistent flow of alcohol;

an unyielding river through our home's hallway.

Framed memories as sediment.

He had a name, and a seemingly honorable title

but one's birth doesn't immediately constitute

recognition. What does? Pain.

Those same eyes that read pop-up books

and saw multicolored skies

also saw my father's frantic faltering

a bloody memento

on the side jamb. Now,

with deep wrinkles on my forehead,

the recollection remains:

those crimson streaks

covered all remaining remnants

of fatherhood saturated in machismo and Marlboros

and of placid Saturday nights by the television.