There’s a beast in the kitchen.
Run, my dear mère.
There’s a beast in the kitchen
with a jarring stare.
His claws freshly sharpened, his eyes a glassy haze.
His scent like sweet, fermented grapes.
Hide in the bedroom and lock the door.
I’ll distract him while you call for the hunters.
Don’t make a sound, not even a whisper.
Be as still as the stag when he hears the leaves rustle.
He’ll raise a paw and then the other.
Don’t worry dear mother.
Being bruised is nothing new.
I’ve encountered this beast in all of his tempers.
The hunters are almost here.
Just hide a few minutes longer.
I’ll lead him to the dining room and you’ll run out the front door.
Be as swift as the wind.
Lead the hunters inside.
They’ll trap him in a cage and send him away.
There’ll be no need for goodbyes.
The beast is no longer in the kitchen.
We’re free, my dear mère.
Free from the horrors and those glossy stares.
Free from the smell of late nights and contentious games.
Free from the beast in the shape of the man I used to know as father.
