The week bombs poured like confetti <br />over Arab skies, spring finally came <br />without fanfare or desire, and my <br /> <br />son was so mad, he wanted to hit <br />his brother for tripping him upstairs, <br />and I wanted to pummel them both <br /> <br />for the noise and laundry. It happened <br />the way leaves finally burst always <br />later than we think: my neighbor beat <br /> <br />his pet rabbit to death on his lawn, <br />the neighborhood kids at a safe <br />distance, intrigued adults can go <br /> <br />as berserk as we threaten. He hung <br />it on the Japanese Plum starting <br />to flower, and no one knew what <br /> <br />to do when he said It bit me, you know. <br />His hands were shaking a little, just <br />enough, I knew he wanted someone <br /> <br />to forgive him, a thing I couldn’t do, <br />so I went inside, laid my hands against <br />a bare wall over years of my son's <br /> <br />fingerprints, as if they were my alibi, <br />not the evidence that implicates us all, <br />the stairwell leading nowhere but up <br /> <br />and down, a conduit between worlds, <br />refuge as transitory as the petals <br />of a Plum tree blown across my lawn.<br /><br />Laura McCullough<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/between-worlds-refuge/