No accident

My dad
threw my mother
down the stairs. Not a bump,
not a jostle, not
an accident. He picked her up
from the bed, cradled her
in his arms and then he
threw her down
the stairs. I didn't see this,
of course, standing in the living room, I only
saw her land
at the bottom, like a set of measuring spoons
tossed in the sink, soiled and
no longer nested.

He wasn't finished,
his white shirt, all I can
see is his white shirt
and she
is all I hear. This sound
must be what butterflies sing
when you rip their wings. That was
the first time I ever hated
anyone.

I do not speak
to my dad anymore, though
he still tries
to talk to me. He sends me
email, but I changed
Outlook to delete
his messages on arrival.
I changed my outlook to
delete him on arrival.

I wish he were dead.

I don't want him to die, I'm glad
he's out there in the world.
He's my daddy.
But if he were dead, I wouldn't
have to kill my self
made in his image. I look almost
exactly like him.

He used to take me
to gather watercress for our salads
and when I was two, I would
hug him good-bye with my whole
body and kiss him just above
the knee, which was a small problem
as wet toddler kisses aren't
in the army's approved dress code.

I remember it. I remember
everything. He used to hold me up
just under the shower head to
rinse my hair. I wish I still had
my dad, the man taking care
and lifting me closer
to the light, but he got lost
somewhere.
He got lost.

2006

Thoughts and Comments

I performed this at the April Poetry Slam Play Offs in Eugene.

You may not reproduce, republish or distribute content from Flipside B in any form without express written permission from Barbara Handley unless that specific work is licensed under a Creative Commons license. All rights reserved.

Contact Barbara Handley at mailto:ardea@flipsideb.com