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La Guerre
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Matthew
Matthew, son of a bitch who
stripped you down on his couch
his wandering mouth, so quiet now
and all that booze won't take the blame for you
and how all the way home you kept the words
tied to your tongue and never loosened them, not once
And on the day the tornado came
he went to chase it by the lake.
But you, your niece and nephew stayed
and almost died from a baby gate
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that blocked your way.
And as the clouds began to break
the insulation fell like rain
but looked like snow, your hair a mane
tears on your face, the children safe.
You almost hoped he died that day
but back he came.
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