I’d hear my mother in the kitchen preparing dinner. I’d hear the spoons hitting the mixing bowl, the clatter of silver falling into the drawer. I’d hear the pot lids clink and rattle. The normality of the sound was startling; it seemed louder than usual, as if she weren’t ashamed, as if she were making a point. Perhaps the house was cut in two by a membrane, and, though her sounds could come to my ears, my screams and cries and whimpers, his demands and humiliations, the sounds of his hands hitting my body, couldn’t pierce back the other way....

Dear Sister Sylvia,

You told me I should write a letter to my father, to put all of the anger from my childhood in it. You said I should be totally free and, after, burn it and write a blessing. When I approached you and told you I was having a hard time writing a poem, you clarified, “I don’t want you to write a poem. Write a letter, completely free, say what you want, ‘Fuck you, you’re a shit.’ Let go!” I went back to my room realizing I am afraid to let go of “poetry.” My writing has...