His mother is an echo in the tread of his soles,

smaller

her steps swallowed up by the forward march

of man up and carry on.

She sees her own father

in the square set shoulders,

spine now a rod

to be turned into a weapon

when sadness finally stews into anger.

 

He will tell people how he’s never hit a woman,

because that is the same as respect.

His mother raised him better

than to paint a girl’s skin with fists,

so he’ll call it love

when he uses words to do the same

where it’s invisible,

and call it consent

when he talks the ‘no’ away to a half yes.

 

When the glasshouse eventually does break,

he’ll pretend away the damage.

Not realizing that you can’t

until the last pane shatters.

Bravery mutates into desperation,

shame,

escape.

Nothing else seems to fit

when the world is framed that way.