It’s Hard for Me to Tell You This Without Picturing It

I wish I could forget the night I snuck into my parent’s room, 

testing the door, lightly jostling it, until I wedged myself 

through a crevice & then crept in with the same soft steps my auntie, 

usually a little tipsy, liked to warn me about, saying, don’t trust men

who don’t finish their plate or can’t be heard when they walk 

through your house. Mind you I wasn’t a man, but a boy, who fledged his way

onto the mattress’ corner. Stuck between wanting to be held & playing 

dead, I heard my mother’s soft escapes of breath escalate to a sound,

at the time, I associated with Marilyn Monroe, our cocker spaniel, 

who’d sometimes whimper out of delight, begging for another treat.

Then my father began to speak, his low sweet tone surprised me,

he sounded like a child, working his wants out. He said, yes baby yes

& I said be quiet…then my mother screamed & fell off the bed, so I laughed

just like you might have, just now, & he said dammnit son & laughed back.