His Face

It's like the bile in my mouth when I'm sick or the sand in my shoes after a day at the beach.

Maybe it's the dirt under my nails after digging a hole to hide my memories deep underground.

Is it the stale milk the morning of my sweet sixteen or the taste of my tears after a nightmare?

I think it's the accident I saw when I was seven, and thought all vehicles crashed eventually.

I’m not sure, but I wonder if it's the scribbles over my mother's future the day she was wedded?

Was it her tears every night as I lay next to her or the marks on my brothers as they cowered?

And now it's the scars on her and me and them.

It's my baby brother's nightmares when he dreams of pain. It's my brother's silence when talked to.

It's my mother's shaking on the kitchen floor.

It's in me, and us, and everywhere.

His face.

How do I forget it?