I ask you about arrows I repeat
father’s words are rocks landing on a small girl’s back
she carries them when they hit, she’s on all fours she’s a dog
glancing red a slicing blade
the way he looks at her she’s cut through
her shoulders
there’s a growling
hanging in a curdled air
jealous of his children
the back of his hand
threat of the back of his hand
his words about feeling the back of his hand
I wish my mother had told him even once just to stop
Kate Walters