I’m in Paris, city of monuments and stone
buildings. My stepfather is here with me
showing me his fists. He holds them
together, at chest level, for me to examine. 
I run my fingertips over their knobby surfaces.
He has already beaten my mother, 
my brother, and for the first time 
has punched my son, who is now twenty
but in the dream is only six, and lies
unconscious on the ground behind him.
But before it’s my turn again, this interlude,
this chance for me to study his fists
which he holds out to me, not out of pride
or even intimidation, but matter–of–factly,
as if sharing something that I might find
curious, which I do, running my fingertips
over what should be human flesh 
but is instead limestone, or maybe granite—
cold, crystalline, without any give. 
I ask him how this is even possible,
how skin becomes stone. He says nothing.
And when my son stirs behind him, 
my stepfather turns to look. 
It’s then that I see the hammer
leaning against the wooden fence 
a few feet away, the hammer I will bring
down repeatedly upon his brittle skull,
though, before I can reach out and grab it,
I wake—I always wake—committing 
the one big crime of my life, 
not grabbing that hammer, not doing
what needed to be done. 

                                                            —José A. Alcántara