On Brutalism: A Bedtime Story

A body sits, exposing the corner
of a bone colored mattress.
The outline of a man discards
a damp down comforter. Noting,
as it flops loosely to the floor,
how easily weight could be
hidden beneath its subtlety.

“I wasn’t always this
stern with the others.”

A thin cast iron bed frame projects
a careful shadow on a body
concealed in rose-pink sheets.
It shrugs a leg, revealing raw
scrapes from a safety razor blade.

“They listened….”

The shape of a girl clutches
a wet pillow to its chest. It
has been consuming the dolor
and cheap make up of a child
being taught to carry itself
like an adult.

“They didn’t talk back.”

The man stands, closes
in to kiss its forehead
then stops to watch his
shadow cast over it.
He notes the white of
its eyes slowly churn
the color of concrete
as his back lurches
a shiver toward the
door. He rubs his
hands on his pants
then on themselves.
His gorged lips
derail then
wrestle
a smile

“Don’t forget to
wash up before bed.”