I should be home by now

What did I know? I was just a kid lost

in play.  Lost in make believe 

in the high ceilinged rooms

of Christine's house down the street.  

Christine with hair light and pure, 

a free-from-dust glow around

her golden threads and periwinkle eyes.  

Fair and sweet as infant Jesus 

watching from the candle-bright altar.  

Then I remember and throw down 

the dolls and shriek, 

I should be home by now! 

Run girl run, my mother's voice 

shrill in my head loops and loops 

and I see her face disfiguring

before me, her oldest child, 

the one most likely to turn out like her, 

the impulsive girl with unkempt hair,

the one she must subdue with brute force, 

must break her in by lunging and slamming 

and throwing her down

until the girl stops screaming and kicking, 

until she lies still, playing dead, and then 

my mother strips from her nails 

the daughter's dislodged hairs, 

one at a time, the silky brunette strands 

of hair without a halo.