No one tells you about those nights
being twenty-three years old
living at home with alcoholic parents.
How it is only kind of shameful that you
haven't out-grown your childhood room. Things
are only stacked higher now.
No one tells you that through your fathers
stupid drunken crooked smile the hardness
of his voice when he says, " You want to know
how good I have it with my girls? I am
one hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars in debt from your college
and one hundred and fifty-six thousand dollars in debt
from the other ones college."
How you have no idea how to stand
next to the Christmas presents
you just wrapped for your parents anymore.
No one tells you of the moment your sister- the middle one-
knocks on your door,
mascara down her glass-rimmed eyes.
How many years of hate and anger with the
middle sister resolve into suspended silence.
No one tells you how you and your sister
revert into younger versions and squeeze tightly together
on your twin-sized bed watching A Christmas Story.
It is familiar and distant
all at the same time.
Our feet
just hang slightly over the bed.
-sonja lynn mata
