Poetry from Favour Raymond

Today, I returned home to an environment painted with the orchestra of my mother’s screams- half
singing, half whimpering.
That is another way of saying my father has done it again.
She said “ how did your father’s hands which held gifts for me morph into a fist?”
That is to say, his fist no longer unravel gifts but spanks.
I mean every time I mirror my mother’s face,
It still hold a map of my father’s palm prints. And when she sings to the obeisance of my father’s fist,
my eyes vies with a cloudy sky.
Now I pretend I’m an artist
Yet I keep sketching images of a man
Letting his anger escape his fist to his wife.
That is a shorter way of saying, I barely imagine a peaceful union.