Raised in a fist
misnamed “family.”

Open wound holidays.
Silent scar dinners.

At first sign of having grown up 
enough, was thrown
like a party into 
full war footing.  

Precision became
a refuge — exact words,

sure placement of blows
and slashes.  

Raised a torch seeking
honesty, dropped a hint,
found haunts and safer
dangers to call home.

When asked about all this
there was never much said,

just a star-cut side-eye, a shrug
like a blue vein twitching.

If you kept asking questions
you got hurricanes and spider
invasions and hands, dirty hands,
raised in familiar fists,

heavy with ghosts
fighting to escape.