My goldfish died

the night Dad pushed the fridge over.
The machine lay on its side,

exposing lines of dusty metal coils
that were somehow terrifying,

– all those parts, not meant to be seen.
It was the surprise of the violence,

mostly, that became the earworm;
my tiny brother screaming inside-out

from the cot across the hall;
the smell of shit swelling like a balloon

inside our old wooden house.
Through the kitchen door slit, a

woman I recognised as my mother,
moving deliberately in a rigid calm;

gathering up her purse,
stepping over the broken pot-plant,

a silver crucifix bouncing from her chest.
Through the open window, the sweet

rot of wild jasmine seeping thick:
an entire suburb

groaning under the weight.