In bed I lay, electric nerves numbing limbs and
stalling heart; bound at wrists and ankles
by well practiced mental conditioning,
I dared not gasp at her bruised voice.
But Mother is crazy;
I confuse my memories with fiction
because all of my memories are narrated
silently in her bruised voice.
Grandpa attempted to murder her…
do I remember?
Yes, she was soaking, and didn’t know her children.
Or! do I only live under the power of her suggestion?
I lived in a Hell House.
I do live in a Hell House,
trying to decipher, after all these years,
the nonsense (?) of her bruised voice.