Therapy

My brother's in the house. I close my door.
He's in the kitchen. Bottles, knives. He breaks the lock,
drags me by one arm across the floor.
A small bird thrums its wings inside the clock;
now it's coming out, it's keeping track
of each indignity: that helpless day,
my father's drinking, Christ, the whole black
drama of my childhood's on display
like a document in a museum. And you
sit listening, and nodding, like those toys
I've seen, their heads on springs. It's too
ridiculous, this ordering the noise
the past makes into music. What's it for?
Time's up. You're in the house. I'm through the door.


 

© Kim Addonizio

from Tell Me (BOA Editions, 2000)