The toppled, tender branches,
roughed by wind, reach across
the paltered sky like creases
in a Bible.

My father, whose orange anger
used to accumulate, descending
upon me like a roller coaster 
of rain when I accidentally tore
a page in that great Holy book
passed down from his many generations.

Swift as almighty he removed
his belt, switching it across my backside
until my only cries rose violent enough
to crack and clear his hearing.

I grew up believing
in wind beyond reason,
expecting a storm all the time.

Silent sunny days
still frighten me.

© 2003 Lisa Zaran