Regression, Tradition

It's not the sound of Pan flutes
that freaks me out. Pretty much ever.
It's that tone, imperative.
hurt and yet
still caught off guard,
surprised in a way
that is so embarrassing.
face a tiny wildfire,
eyes swimming in guilt
soupy moment just won't flop
tacky seconds of pained straining
panic rises in the fumbling
frantic fingers jingle change,
keys, mints, whatever, pen

It's not being alone
with you in a room that screams
out possible outcomes
in comes the tide of tiny sweaters
knitted hats and mittens
kittens, while cute as buttons, still
make mincemeat of mutton
with their tiny claws of razor-like
bone. Quiet. Quiet. I'm on the phone
to your Grandma.

That isn't the scary part either.
Never did it for me. Nope.
But the night air on summer
-heated blacktop, bending to lift bumpers,
push and grunt a parked car down suburban byways
to block some guy's driveway
either that
or get punched out and left out
crapped on again in the lonely night
and the summer wind across the sandy shadows of hills
like delicate music to a boy whose soul longs
for other people in other places
but gets only ulcers and night frights
sleep walks and bruises from
bullies for being the naive one,
self-righteous martyrdom

That was a little unnerving, to be certain,
but the fear came much earlier
ears crowded with panicky heartbeats
muffled by oil and wadding of cotton
door being thrown open
from a night so different
before the slurred words,
hot wave of breathy alcohol
trapped and frustrated
his hands doing something
more than fists
forgot why he made them
but since they're in the room
they're going to break open

blurred by sleep and antibiotics
they soon came upon me
my small child's body
again and again

This is where fear first came from,
shoved on me like a secret
told deep in the night
hidden in fists, delivered after fistfights
ancient transfer completed
my relief's still evasive