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When We Feared Fear Itself
by Earl Coleman

They must have talked before she served,
now silent as in church,
us poor as mice, wiped out.

He quit the dinner table,
lips shut tight. Floors creaked,
and then the porch door banged.
Mom, eyes closed, head bowed,
knowing something, leaving it to him.

I couldn’t. Thirteen. Walked outside.
The red eye of his cigarette
directed me. The autumn night
was flung about with stars.

I sat beside him on the swing.
“What’s wrong, pop? Can I help?”
He took a puff;
the glow lit up brown pupils
where the world went up in smoke.
“A man. I owe a debt.
He’ll be here soon. Go in.”

An hour afterward
I hadn’t heard a noise
but knew to put my algebra aside.

The two of them were at the sink,
his head thrown back. The blood
came faster than she sponged it off,
bright red. He didn’t say a word,
just suddenly put up a hand
to hold the room in place,
and spit two shiny teeth, that rattled
when they hit the porcelain.

I put my arm around his waist,
his solid waist, his shirt
all wet with water and his blood.