rainbows

when i was twelve
i'd listen to my
mother and father
do battle down below.
what dishes we had
sailed across the
room and broke into
a thousand pieces
like little white
stars. of course
liquor was generally
involved, as was
the lipstick on
my fathers face,
and scratches from
the nails of some
woman. sometimes
there was blood,
my mother's, or
a broken arm, a
broken nose, a cut
phone cord with
the carving knife,
but always lots of
glass. i remember
how the sunlight
would catch the little
rainbow pieces
caught up in the rug
when coming down
the steps in
the morning to go
to school.