He is eleven, nearly a man
when the belt’s buckle catches
under his skin, a wriggling fish.

As usual he
grips the kitchen sink
stares at the faucet drip
as she whips.

He never cries, but this time
bloody puddles stain
his white socks, the canvas
of his Converse,
gore trickles down his leg.

She places it
on the counter,
bits of her boy’s ass impaled
on sharp metal prong.

She tidies right up,
sweeps a dish towel across the wound
applies pressure and whispers,

published in Dream Noir