He Came Back

We parked against the curb and

the four of us unloaded from the van

to our lawn covered in confetti.

Dad's Toyota was slanted in the driveway.

It all looked like day-after

party excrement.

A little celebration we missed

for Dad's homecoming.

Black trash bags waved

in the Summer air.

The front door swinging

on its hinges.

I scooped the confetti

into my hand,

they were little bits

of our family

photos —

ashes

of our former selves

that would never

breathe again.

Take a finger

and etch the four of us

into the cinder

like stick-figures,

but they still won't breathe.

In fact,

The smallest whisper of truth

would blow them apart.

We were such fragile things

in the palm of a quaking

old-world deity.

He sat in his room,

pouting in a hunch,

taking heavy breaths

that smelled like Budweiser,

surrounded by open photo books

like he was summoning

the devil himself to erase us.

The Scissors in his hand:

his weapon of choice

against the shame of infidelity and

the holes in our childhood walls.

Luckily,

Even the devil knew

that you were

just a child