“Hey little girl is your daddy home? Did he go and leave you all alone?”
I’m On Fire -Bruce Springsteen
Little girl, don’t you forget his face.
Close father’s hazel-suffused skylights and lie
still. Split seconds perpetuate aches, somewhere
under flower-hindering soil, not over any battered
indigo rainbows, resilient
from terror.
Spun out for certainty; children books lay upon egg yolk
wooden shelves, lacking in sustenance. Emotional
distress is no fodder for offspring. Peanut butter and jelly,
ceaselessly floating above you. Thunder’s tears water
your not guilty plea of sorrow, to
grow without due consideration.
Tap, on the sunflower seed road to past strawberry
milk wishes, Dorothy’s broken slippers. Slipping,
these moments collapse innocence,
like those fallen to their death after a frightening,
terrorist sparked-reign.
Little girl, he will never define
release. Releasing you from drenched nightmares, home
to his short-lived love,
lost.
Blemished, inevitably you will recoil
time and time again,
into lukewarm thoughts prior to the burning of your bare flesh
before home is recovered, in memory.
Little girl, someday when time arrives in cold
death,
he will find you, well.
Essential wellness, father’s resistance and daughter’s love neither parting,
emerging.
No comments:
Post a Comment