Gross Fugue

 
The boy heard in his dreams
the footsteps clopping, down the hall
in snare-like beat, then
scraped out of bed by his sire,
red hot drunk,
and flung into the iron night
set upon the clavichord stool
cold and tipping beneath him,
shaking fingers on keys, told
faster, faster, faster
over and over, the
snap snap snap
of the riding crop

If he cried, if he fell asleep, then
grabbed by the withers
tossed into the night of the cellar
four walls, earth floor, no light
except the dim constellations shooting
through the cracks in the door
listening for the hard knock that would release him,
wet foal, alone and aching
for his mother

wondering was he made or
wrought

And those of us whose fathers
reached into our soft bellies and ripped out our spines
how will we become —
can any of us stand it, or
will we crack
curled in our tombs of stars
reaching, reaching, reaching
arrows up up up
hard nock pulling back bow
locked between shadow
and fire,
waiting, for
splendid release, for
breath and sound, for
broken strings

***

(Featured image from Pexels)