Dread like a calm,
dead silent succeeding
Daddy, the wrist Twister.
My eyes wide, watching you
mother, recover from
the familiar fluorescence
finding corners, cowering
to cover your face from
strains that strike
with the wind-whipped, lashed
violent, violet sky.
A lethargic haze hums in cool hues,
a light swirling blue-black bruised;
opiate clouded you
fades between, out of, and into,
white sneakers that tap at
cold tile from room to room.
-lisa galloway