Truro, Nova Scotia

On the white porch of our old home

in this sad small town

left disastrous by hurricane

I sit on the rocking chair

we inherited from grandma

and suck on my wooden reed

My hands swiftly create

my music machine

Tears rolling down my

chubby child cheeks

because daddy hit me

and music is dramatic

and I know mommy is

plotting her escape out the window

But her pregnant belly imprisons her

and my music makes her sadder

I want mommy to feel it,

how my cheek stings,

and to see the way music proves me

and how the old porch

creaks underneath

while daddy rests solemnly in her lap