around its bowl and keeps the secrets
of this house … is the money taken
(stolen) from our mum’s purse,

the accidental ( deliberate) dropping
of the jug she keeps small change in.
It does not look where it’s coming from

as if to know is worse than going
and swims all day through the shapes
of our fear. We overfeed it

so that it will not hear
his kicks on the banister rail
and wedding pictures ripped off the walls.

It turns on our stifled screams,
on the thought that clenched his fists,
on blood-stained teeth, on clumps of hair,

his knuckle, his eyes, their veins.
Its bowl is bigger than the comer we hide in.
We have nowhere to go but swim.