There lives a family of two near my house.
They fight every night.
A man, old enough to be dead.
A son, old enough to be alive.
There was a mother once.
A frail tiny lady.
She was too frail.
She is remembered still
By all of people
who hardly knew her.
She went out in the morning
to office.
And came back in the evening
to this house.
To a boy and a man.
To their limitless violence
that rendered scars across her skin.
They remained at home.
In the beginning there was
from the man
words.
then hands.
then the belt.
And from the son
his gaze.
Some evenings later, there was
from the man
what had become her habit
and a hand and a word
from the gazing son
for the absence of a toy.
She was a frail woman.
Her ashes were thrown in
the river.
Most of it fell on the stairs.
The routine has changed.
The drunk son blames the man
for killing his mother.
The old man tells him
“Go fuck
your mother.”
Then cries for help.
There is hardly ever violence.
Every night, every time
The son threatens his father
The father cries for help.
The neighbors shut them up.
One night, like any other night
The drunk son grabbed the man.
And out of no passion,
no wish, no intention,
punched the man in the face.
The old man fell to the chair,
the son sat across.
He realized how good it feels
to punch an old man’s face.
And he simply wanted to feel good that night.
After some time
the neighborhood dogs started howling.
His cries were indecipherable.