WINNER, Summer 2010: Hell's Kitchen - Ryan Roskilly

There is a demon at my kitchen table,
The father of my children,
Red and fuming with his half-empty bottle of black liquor.
I don’t dare speak; silence is his language,
Silence is my language.

I hear my children’s footsteps lightly drumming
On the hard-wood floors.
They peek their heads around the corner
To see what mood He’s in.
The bottle says it all.

The words “Get in here!” roared, as if culminated
In hell itself, rattling and cracking the windows.
It was enough to loosen my grip
On the pan I was bringing to the table.
His steak, as if in slow motion, fell to the ground.

He rose from his seat, slow and menacing;
I’d just triggered my own agony.
I drop to my knees, scrambling to salvage his patience,
But he soon towered over me,
Fingers clenched.

He waited for me to rise, to look him in the eye,
Before he cocked back and
Crushed my jaw with his hammer-like fist.
I fell to the ground, blood and teeth on my tongue.
My children look, horrified, at their mangled mother.

He looks down at me for just a second, marveling
At his work, then steps over me toward the children, whiskey in hand.
They both back against the wall
Out of reach from the monster, their father.
Good boys.

They hurry in to bring mommy to her feet,
Tears now streaming down their soft, pale cheeks.
They sit me in a chair before running
To collect towels and ice.
A glimmer of light guides my eye to his revolver on the counter.

I stand up while my little boys search,
I wander toward the pistol.
The silver metal, gleaming bright,
Tells me why he loves this gun.
My children are now watching me, looks of terrified approval;
They’ll never see my blood again.

The weight of the gun in my hand
Pulls me toward the living room,
Where the demon now sits.
I smell the liquor, his fiery rage,
Filling my lungs with flame.

I stand tall before his throne of black leather,
The shining pistol between his horns.
I look him in the eye again, this time I am strong.
My finger lays upon the trigger,
My trigger.