Image by © Jon Boyes/Tetra Images/Corbis

I watched when he flattened the crimson mortar
under the windowsill of our brand new home, hands
so steady as he carved horizontal and vertical lines
to mimic a brick wall. This was as delicate as I saw
them for he used more force on my mother’s face,
painting it with hues of red and blue. She was a palette
for his aggression, noticeable in the dark grooves under
her eyes and the shades of violet amongst her light skin.
I would spend days staring at that perfect wall hearing
his disparaging voice echo through the glass panes.
Her pain has subsided with his death and my fury
finally extinguished, but I still dream of a house
enclosed within red brick walls, one with a more solid
foundation rather than the artificial in which I lived.