Saturdays With Father 2I locate now those long afternoons with my father
as my first acquaintance with terror.
I was mortally afraid of those women
and their power over him
Fearful of their casual,
coy, closely guarded secrets,
Their lady fingers, their lady slippers,
their perfumed bodies.
I am riveted to the spot—
to the slurred voices,
to the songs,
to the demented laughs.
The intimate conversations—
They may as well be speaking in another language—
That wavering and murmuring dialog.
I’d imitate later
their despised honey voices
So as to punish my father
and in some way
keep him indebted to me,
along with all the others he owed things to.
He never knew in those years
when I might speak,
or what I might say.
I, his small, perverse jailer.
He, prisoner of this child.
Through these amorous routines,
she works out complex algebraic equations,
or reads Shakespeare and Eliot and Descartes,
Or composes haiku on her arms,
Trying to force the world into seventeen syllables.
Weird quiet girl. Deserted. Marooned.
Poetry by Ashe
Read 345 times
Written on 2015-12-04 at 16:11
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