So from screaming it turned into things like blaming it all: the axe through the garage

panels, the antipathy of white. Chips scraped from the garage side rained down, the lawn’s

green blades up, paint chips falling. A brother angry at who knows what. He wanted to take

it to a fire, axe through the wood. Where could rage go? The noise of the axe through the

wood over and over, a prayer cried into a pillow to make it stop and no pattern resolved,

no rescue to relieve the scene. So many times, ignoring for the sake of normal: the bent

forks and bent barbells. And the scream held at a note stretches into something airy, fades

to singable. The sheen of stares, spangles; hurt drops its age. Stage light and the chorus

going until the repetend, rehearings and rehearsals hundredfold. This goes and goes for

years. You tire of a song; it can no longer be heard.