Saturday, September 19, 2009

poem for Maria

when I was eight years old
my Dad would wrestle with me
would hold me down
twist my arm behind my back
say give in submit
I never would
you can break my fucking arm
before I give in
I would say
in other gasped words
because I didn't yet know
these words
you're mad he would say
and get off me
distantly sensing the danger
that was to come

this dilemma of murder
unhinged me until
I was in a supermarket one day
and finally understood
that gods are shrivelled things
doled out by uninterested fishmongers
in worlds of stinking grey ice


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