top of the stairs

even now, at this age,
you cringe at the sound
of arguing
between a man
and a woman,
having sat at the top
of the stairs
listening to the curses
of your mother and father.
their hateful voices
rising like acidic
heat to your small
ears. you hear
the broken dishes,
the glass
against the wall,
the cut cord,
the phone being
thrown.
the knocks at the door,
the screams,
the sirens.
your sister, hardly
born, in her
crib crying
in another room.