Our home eventually blew down,
stained planks shattered
under the winds of his panic.
We held our jackets high
over our heads like bright sails
and tried to fly away. He lived
in the propane fumes of his van,
trash collecting under
its axled belly. Each day he called out
to his enemies, hunkered behind
the unkempt hedges. Yellow flowers
dared to bloom on those greening branches
at the perimeter of war, our homeless home.
Our small bodies airborne for only moments:
sewn as we were to that darkening battlefield
of our father’s mind.
