when i was here i spent my years
catching my father’s anger
like too-fast baseballs that rip
straight through the mitt and land
hard on your chest, before dropping to the ground and rolling away.
i stepped in front of my sisters,
even when they asked him to pitch
especially when they didn’t mean to.
i tried my best to protect them so they never had to learn the bitter taste of violence
now i am back
and i wonder if that was the right thing to do
because my sisters do not let his anger drop to the ground, they swallow it
they are so full on my father’s anger that the leftovers spew from their mouths
to him, to their friends, to each other, to me
and how do i catch a liquid rage
when it keeps slipping through my fingers and landing, in burning droplets, on the very chest i used to protect them from hurtling baseballs?
~mj