the blueshift journal

          Don’t panic. Shatter

the glass

          between you

                    and the extinguisher

with your elbow

          or foot;

                    never your hands

or they’ll bleed

          like your father’s

                    after he punched

a window

          in place of

                    your mother.

Pull the pin

          like a braid

                    of hair.

Squeeze the handle

          like a small boy’s

                    wrist. Break

through the fire

          if it spreads

                    too far. Go,

find yourself,

          ten years old, hiding

                    beneath the sheets.

Get him out

          knowing

                    all you can do

is clear a path

          to the nearest exit

                    you might not reach.

On your hands

          and knees,

                    lead him, crawl

with your face

          lowered

                    to the ground

below the hem

          of smoke

                    as if you’re bowed

in reverence

          to this rage—fire

                    that never ends,

its embers

          surrounded

                    by memories

you’ve pushed

          like boulders

                    surrounding a fire pit,

the barrier

          you need

                    between you

and your father,

          you

                    and your temper,

ready to lash out

          in the smallest crack

                    or lapse

of thought.

          In case of fire

                    remember

your father’s

          dozen faces

                    splintered

in glass, remember

          how sharp

                    his eyes can be,

how easy

          your bare foot

                    can crush

his face

          into dust,

                    how even then

you’ll carry shards

          of him

                    inside your skin.

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