To teach me anything, Mommy says, Watch my hand.

Soon, I learn to braid my hair by repeating her wrists.

Same hands slapping lotion on our faces each morning,

she taught me the sun rises in the East, sets in the West

so, I’m never lost coming home. Sight, a pattern of witness,

I learn to hand sew, to count in Roman numerals,

How to avoid the living room when Adam begins his subjugation.

First, mumbling. Then, screaming. His fists penetrating her skull.

As we do during a thunderstorm, we hide under the covers.

“Sometimes” by Britney Spears croons from each earbud,

and we sing to each other to close the distance. What little

               I understand

of marriage is better understood in my garden. Sumac in the spring,

poison oak sprouts their green worlds in shade. Symbiosis requires                      peace

or obedience. Abel returns home each evening with fresh lamb, skirt                 steak.

I, sweet peppers, yam, spinach. Adam gets the lion’s share of our labor

and for another night, our mother can rest. Cups of water collecting                   under our bed.