BY KATIE DAVENPORT

Those summers were the worst—

            August, with the shades up but the

            windows down to keep the cats from

            escaping.

Me, hiding, stumbling upon a pile of my

            mother’s shoes, coagulated blood piling

            under the skin where a toe struck a heel.

My mother’s reassurance that the lion only

            comes once a month, only to find another one

            roaring

            in those final August days.

Me, hiding, stumbling upon a pile of my mother’s shoes,

            the vacuum to my side bruising ribs,

            Chris’s fist like thunder upon the door—

            mocking, menacing,

            laughing.

Those summers were the worst, with the howling

            siren that reminds me of air-raids

            with civilians

            hiding, stumbling in closets

            upon

piles of their mothers’ shoes.