I was seven when
I first saw my uncle
kick his pregnant wife, hard.
In the stomach.
It was Avurudu and
festive times
were upon us
Dropping him at his house
because he couldn't drive on his own
Waiting in the car
until he made it through the door which
opened
and his wife came
outside
expressing disappointment
at his inebriation
My father swore
slipped out of the driver's seat
and pulled him off
my screaming aunt
and punched him in the face. He went flat
out.
Bleeding from the nose.
He had been named
for a
notorious Italian dictator
and much was always blamed on that.
Inside the house,
the milk heated at the auspicious hour
had boiled over signifying abundance
and was still warm
in the pot.
