Traditional

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.