Children

His hands never touched me in that way, anger fisting into sensation, pain thrumming
through skin, bone, flesh.
His hands came through my ears,
    doors I had slammed shut and blankets thrown over me.
Fear became a cloak, is still a cloak.

He doesn’t see what he did wrong.
Everything is fine
    but summers must end, and lingering affection gets through like a net over the next
youngest child.

Hot breath,
    angry exhalations,
        yells,
            screams,
                sobs,
            huddling embraces,
        hearts wanting to stop the beating
    beating against ribs, doors,
faces, backs, bones.

He’s not the only one.
I cradle my friend,
her legs kick and shoulders jerk beneath my hold--
and I try not to cry.
The sobs crawl up my throat,
but I shove them back down my windpipe
    with curses I don’t dare say.

My fists clench, as bile rises,
and violence shears past the controlled fear,
ripping through curtains keeping away memories
    of small children running and hiding
    from a giant who calls them his.