Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Broken Glass

I heard the crash of broken glass
before I saw the blood run red.
My brother and I were chasing
each other. He slammed the door.
I stopped it with my hand.

Not too smart, mother will be angry.
Whose fault is it?
Dad is tired
and there’s a mess to clean.
Fun turns to panic.
I get the broom, my brother
holds the dust pan. One of
the younger ones runs
to tell about the shattered glass.

We lie, “Don’t know
how it happened,” we said.
We got closer that night
after we decided to deceive.

Dad finds a scrap of wood
It has to do for a week or two.

I still have the scar
right here on my pinky finger.

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