04-21-2019, 12:25 AM
That Day
The same hands that cradled
my newborn head
tore through damp cardboard,
on the front step since Christmas.
Silent between beads of sweat,
eyes burning from something
I pretend he hoped I'd never see,
but I heard almost every night;
tucked in too tightly,
forehead kiss sometimes missed.
Excuses of mice nests and invading insects
freed him for just under an hour,
outside air cool against raging temples
that stoked the embers of thoughts
he probably thought would never ignite,
while I stood on a chair,
safely behind glass, warm as a light bulb,
to watch this man, my father,
who left when I was twelve.
The same hands that cradled
my newborn head
tore through damp cardboard,
on the front step since Christmas.
Silent between beads of sweat,
eyes burning from something
I pretend he hoped I'd never see,
but I heard almost every night;
tucked in too tightly,
forehead kiss sometimes missed.
Excuses of mice nests and invading insects
freed him for just under an hour,
outside air cool against raging temples
that stoked the embers of thoughts
he probably thought would never ignite,
while I stood on a chair,
safely behind glass, warm as a light bulb,
to watch this man, my father,
who left when I was twelve.
Time is the best editor.