Contrition

My father doesn't understand it—why my sister needs to put a needle intoher bloodstream to feel anything.

He is of old St. Louis, its slow alleysand its crawling river. Knives, he understands,and Budweisers, what burns under

the hood of a Ford but not this finespecimen of hypermagical continuous.Dad sees things plain and stubborn,

not with my distance which simplifies,not with Mom's potent awareness of shame.I want to write the story easier than

silence, in the soft language of greetingor in the easy sympathy of fridge magnets,so even grandparents can understand.

I see my students every day wonderingwhere their simple, logical choiceswill lead them. I drive the roads to work

in Atlanta. They are beaten to shit-brownand hard black. They are ready, I think;I hear the hurt in Mom's voice. Dad says,

please, I don't often talk about it.And Jane, she is the poorest of spirit.This, I tell Dad, is what it means to be blessed.