The boy woke to shouting.

The back door slammed on night,

on someone leaving in a hurry,

an unknown perfume lingering.

In striped pajamas, bare feet,

he wandered into the kitchen.

His father, Popeye arms bulging,

hands round his wife’s neck,

pushed her against the wall.

He lifted her off the ground,

slurred anger in her face,

pink as her floral house dress.

The boy grabbed a skillet,

tightened both hands on it,

like his Little League bat.

He swung for the fences.

His father crumpled to the floor.

The boy dropped the iron pan,

rushed to hug his mother.

Fear burned his stomach.

This wasn’t The Three Stooges.

What had he done?

Mama got a mirror.

They crouched over him,

held it below his nose.

Fog. Thank God! Fog!

They left him there.