by Terry MacDonnell
Cloistered upstairs,
We were not allowed to see Father
When he came.
However, one fateful Sunday
We crept down the stairs
To sneak a peek at him.
There, at the foot of the stairs,
His face livid with rage,
He was twisting Mother’s arm
Behind her back
(Trying to compel her
To go back with him).
I armed myself with Tinker Toys
And flung them at him.
My sister did the same.
He released Mother’s arm
And said,
“Now see what you’ve done, Bea.
You’ve even got the children
Against me.”