Little One

You father said your name meant King.
But the true Slavic tongue defines it
as the small, the little one.

And I wish it helped but it isn't much,
when he tells you all the stars
and planets that it took to make you up. 
 
Little eyes peek out from the darkness
and a shadow of bangs shields your from the arguments
your mother started in the kitchen.
Little scratches along the doorframe
suggest you should have left but the great Lord, they say,
takes what he will.

The winter melts and the sky clears
and your mother ties a scarf around your neck
to hide away the belt marks.

You say you're sorry but it won't do,
she's written a will and all she wants
is for you to go away. 

Little eyes peek out from the darkness
and a shadow of bangs shields you from the arguments
that end in cake and blood.
Little scratches against the sand
as the shore runs dry and you are left
with just the Lord's barren land. 
 
You need an embrace to challenge the dark,
but we drop you into the grave. 
And it's dark and it's cold and it's deep. 

Little lover's hands are reaching out,
trumpets blaring so we cannot hear the noises
and all the past lovers laugh.

Little eyes peek out from the darkness
and a shadow of bangs shields you from the arguments:
your mother thought you were a whore. 
Little scratches along your white thighs
suggest you should have left but the great Lord, they say,
takes who he will.

They share their drinks and part as unlikely friends. 
Your mother cleans your cuts and your father struts.

With the words of your name and his desperate speeches
that everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.

Everything is fine,
everything is fine,
everything is fine.

Little eyes peek out from the darkness
and a shadow of bangs shields you from the arguments
you've decided to take no more.
Little scratches against the grain
with the summer heat and the springtime rain,
you finally closed the screen door. 

And it's cold and it's wet and it's clean.