#221

Cristina Troufa1

My Father’s Breed by Valzhyna Mort

It’s four in the morning.
I’m ten years old.
I’m beating my mother between the mirror and the shoe rack.
The front door is ajar. A bridge
presses its finger to the frozen strip of water.
Snow falls over it gritting like sand on glass.
Both of us in our long night robes.

I stare into her earring hole and aim
at her large breasts not to hurt my knuckles.
I slap her face like I flip through channels.

My father lies at the door. From his shirt
lipstick smiles at me with the warmth of urine.
It’s as if somebody threw at him slices
of skinned grapefruit.
Every time she hits him—I hit her.
Look at this. Look whom you’ve bred.

How can he see from under his pink vomit.
But his body smiles—
cannot stop smiling.

More art by  Cristina Troufa here.
 
Recommended listening: Don’t Ask Me Why – Billy Joel
 
Links of the Day: Kent Rogowski puzzle art
On a Plate (brilliant comic)
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