Schism

 

I used to run out in storms. My father sat with me on the porch.

We watched the lightening. My mother watched us from inside.

We sat on wicker rocking chairs that mom spray-painted white.

Not a whole lot was said besides, Oh! Look at that one.

We saw a striated sky. My mother saw her boys separated

by a vein in the atmosphere.

 

First published in Anti Heroin Chic, 2017

© 2016 Created by Chris Antzoulis