The fall [poem]

My father-like fingers, hands
protruding veins, short nails, the tips
red, holding, entangling in
pushing aside your sweaty hair
colored like a taupe rabbit
soft like the underbelly
quick to cut, to bleed
my mother mouth, lips wet, warm
whispering breath, apology song, tears
on your face, now quivering
bruised from a bang on
the marble floor, your head
throbbing, turning purple, growing
in the quiet aftermath.

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