I look at the boys,
asleep, unconscious to be exact,
and plead silently with them
to tell me the truth.*

I was only
an hour or so away.
Non-existent memory
of what brought them here.

My prime suspect:
their mother, also unconscious,
in the next room over.

My mind wanders
through the past week
spent here with them
on their perfect little cottage
right on the lake.
It matches their perfect,
much bigger, house.
Perfect faces
and their perfect jobs n’ schools
are also seen every time
they step out into this world.

I tuned out the fights
and the screams.
No family can truly be perfect.
This is just how they were
when the lights went out,
I would calmly say to myself.

The quiet boys
were very well-behaved,
too well behaved
I realize now.

Narcissistic father and husband
eyes black with no desire
but modern world success.
Never truly there
but to unleash fits of rage.

Too much to bear for them, I suppose.
Even with with “perfection”.

*”Women Talking” by Miriam Toews

(Poem 4 of Half Marathon)