Rank 1

You said goodbye before the big hello. Bars of yellow bruises I watched you make what never healed in you. Like a baker of abuse you took my mom like bread. There was no safety in your kitchen. Flour on the ceiling, plates on the floor, eggs on our faces, and a dead mouse in the drawer. What happened to the father I never knew? The knife knows me more than you do. But the knife driven by your hand, how I have memorized your knuckles and where they usually land. Mother, coax me to sleep with your ginger cries. Tell me it will be ok with trembling thighs. They let me pick teddy bears to sooth the pain, but after a while they each look the same.
A sister was born. Bread on the floor. In chunks, in slices. it never mattered to the starving man. Bread was bread no matter the shape.
One day at a kitchen party he danced with rye. The rye bread was so soft he couldn’t resist the bend. Bread is bread no matter the taste, he took his knife and his cutting board to. He took the rye bread by the hair and bid us adeu.
I scream for his knuckles and dristling tone. Where are you father? I have no where to call home. Bread is bread no matter the shape. And I find myself soggy on the shores of my ache. Father come find me where broken knives lie, I’ll tell you my secrets before whispering goodbye.