HOLY ESCAPE

my father slammed the door
with a tumultuous slap.

as a drunkard, he often
comes home late in the night
dancing logo ligi
to the tots of alomo bitters
in his veins:

his eyes, red-shot
his fist, a piercing knife
his head, a house of arcane madness.

the walls of the bedroom
sweated with fear
as he charged onto
the body of my mother.

the night grew
into a devastating monster
as mother's face bawled
with dripping blood.

silence thwacked
mother's lips,
as the night wept —

she grabbed my arm,
escaped through the door
& headed to the grotto
Fr Bobby built in 1990.