they come home late,
or not at all,
the walls shake,
the doors learn to lock themselves.
a child waits in the dark,
counting the cracks in the ceiling,
listening for the sound
of boots on the porch—
or worse, silence.
the bottle is god,
and god is cruel.
he speaks in curses,
in fists,
in forgotten birthdays.
some scars don't show,
but they never fade.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem