Give and Take

by | Feb 4, 2023 | DominiQue Christina Day Two

Bulges tremor off skin yoking Dad’s innards with Jello mounds of acidic rage. He carries these parasitic planets on his back like the estranged family who carry the true lineage of his genes. Mom lances the herd, one-by-one, in the bathroom while we hide behind the door and gorge on the banquet of shrieking Dad. High-squealing eunuchs our cat-in-heat can’t even deliver somehow blaze out of this stupefied soprano man.

His shoulders slope demarcations of Mondays. Yet prevail he does to hijinx depression out of his favorite catalysts: us. We are separate balls of hatred leached on to Dad. Humiliation, degradation, disgust, and the youngest flattens under the shadows.

But Dad loads us in the back seat of the family sedan each and every Sunday, soaped up and silent. One place we shine and slick for show is the front pew of the church.

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