It’s very old, my anger like granite.
If I had said…but didn’t…If I had…but…
What do the words in my mouth mean, the
one I kiss an angel with one moment, and in
the next use to send an avalanche of needles
to poke at things I don’t understand, piercing
the doll I once loved mercilessly.
My pain – the belt of my fathers
frustrations…lashing my childhood legs…
If I had smiled and let go of reasons…what?
In that moment before my rain of needles, if I
had gone on a Zen vacation or bent like a willow
or remembered his grief was about something
unrelated to me, she might be waking in our bed,
instead of driving away late midnight feeling she
had no better friend.
If I had reached…pulled maybe, but…I didn’t.
And for that I am sorry…