WOUNDED

My brother shot my father,

The BB gun pressed right against his skin.

Against his left shoulder.

My father, wrestling my mother to the floor,

Looks up

Wounded.

Surprised.

I remember my father’s skin,

Pale.

Thin.

Moles and blemishes on his back,

Turning his head,

Looking at my brother.

His fight is gone.

He is wounded.

Spiritually.

Physically.