The Conjurer

BLOWN FUSE


My father's

bull mastiff fists
Jaws clenched around the collar of my shirt
The wooden legs of the kitchen chairs, running and tripping
My legs strike the table and it grumbles aside

My mother's

basket of hot clothes and towels, just out of the dryer,
watches from a corner of the room
A strangled sleeve hangs over the edge.
Her slow voice, just as wrinkled, smoothing his name

My body is

wrangled backwards towards the shuttered windows
Sunlight filters through dusty splintered wood and warms my face
The electricity of the moment, accelerated, is still familiar
So my muscles relax, eyes softly close, and surrender to the wait

My brother's

frozen figure in the archway, paralyzed from the voltage,
unable to let go, rigid, shrieks with a piercing howl
of a heart impaled, collapses to his knees,
-the blown fuse that breaks the current.