Most nights she hears the thrashing arguments
Of adult hurting adult. With no sense
Of what it's all about, or why they fight
She hears them, and each word attacks, a shape
Big as a bludgeon, stupid as an ape
Above her in the dimness of the night.
Until at last those words merge into dreams
Where sometimes she is safe, sometimes not cheap.
Oh it's a great ambiguous comfort, sleep -
Like Death, a place where no one hears your screams.


{short description of image} At four, she sits... She cannot know, how...