Raised.

Family business says the pitch,
swollen octave unspun.
Here we came
through decisions not our own.
Here, we realized
obligation is coercion.
The numbers mean nothing,
scratched out in spindly script,
conveying children as median,
reaping fruit from sapplings
rooted in fault lines.
This is a mode of torture
not suitable for dinner table talk.
Impregnated with histories,
there is the giver
and one who loves the kill.
Rate the return
ages thirteen and eleven,
anger is the dividend
and there are many interests lost.
This doesn't add up:
wringing hands and cowboy boots,
the stains pooled beneath perception,
stressing vertebra three and four.
Capital raises the octave
and abacus shoulders buckle.