believe it or not, there were moments before the withering;
before the construct of comfort crumbled like october leaves
succumbing to the first frost of the year;
but omnipotence has forever been a christ affair,
an opulence that two lost lovers could not afford;
but the mother & the father gambled with the lord,
their prayers laced with the gravity of two sons & drunken youth,
they yearned to mask their self-struggles, duck their tough-truths,
& birth a family despite themselves;
& soon after, that lust of luck struck gold
& gone were all worries, farewell like autumn winds,
swept away by the welfare of careless laughter;
they became stinking rich with humor, so fun & infectious,
the whole household was a jungle gym, a wildfire of fiction;
everything was sickly-silly, nauseously-hilarious;
the comedy was psychotic, & everyone was gasping for air;

& for the longest it stayed all candy grapes & cinnamon applesauce;
the sinners swallowed their mouthfuls of sweet-ignorance,
while the cherubs could only watch the fruit bruise from afar;
knowledge: the cavity, the vinegar, the snapped olive branch
to the white-wine whimsy, the honeycrisp paradise;
though the two lovers never lost sight of their children,
they had forgotten the light their sons could capture;
they only saw the rapture but never considered armageddon;
so it was more tomorrow mornings, same jokes on relapse,
the psychosis continued & everyone was gasping…

it was the home of the happy meal when the smiles started to melt:
drive-thru violence & sad violins & steering wheels hasn’t looked the same since—
but the scene was locked away & the key was seared for protection
& protective services lurked & threatened to sentence the kids off to shelters,
so the parental playwrights hid their sins & fed their sons the script
while the author of the scriptures let the narrative swelter
& broil more tomorrows, so then it’s quarrels over american cheese:
a slapstick spectacle if not for the hellfire spewed from the father’s rage
& fear’s choir abusing a child’s vocal cords but the lord said
more tomorrows so its chaos in irony, crowds quieting, lovers’ tension inflamed
& their ten year old’s birthday party ignites in flames,
but again, tomorrow’s sun, a godsend, more light enters in & never leaves—
it was still easy to laugh when no one would leave—

because believe it or not, this was all before the withering;
bewildering: how much yet how little it takes to make a bomb explode,
how an apple in the wrong hands…forget it—
there’s no poetic way to say this:

something small was said & eventually dad was large.
devils were present in the living room but this is past spirituality.
his anger spoiled. the hinges popped like broken necks.
he burst out the door. vanished with the memory of safety.
the family scrambled. a litany of movement & damage control.
a little moment to console a younger brother.
a life-long albatross. so much to hold.
mom was unharmed. dad had arms
behind his back, & was arrested.
for the hinges. the poor hinges.

& it was there, when the lovers separated
& the punchline unraveled with frozen laughter,
did the world begin to slowly winter—yet,
at the same moment, the rivers split,
the land ahead was a limitless spring,
& every tomorrow after was a summer
waiting to happen;