Father Reading

Before bed my father read to me—poems that rhymed, their riderlessta-dum ta-da-dum ta-da-dum gallopinglike the Highwayman's horse by moonlight.I dreamed red ribbons woven in raven hair,a man at the window with lace at his throat,and love.

It was a life I expected:the romance of the inevitable;the future a rhyme I could always predict.

So I went to a college he knew,married a man he approved,had two blonde children (a boy and a girl).I cleaned on Fridays, baked on Saturdays,picked up toys and dirty clothesat bedtime as I'd been taught:ta-dum ta-da-dum ta-da-dum

And I wrote what we knew I would:clean lines, their tidy syllablesprancing past discontent,the sharp stones of regret, the sheer dropof anger unanswered. When truth mattered more than meterI saw clenched fists around me thatwere not mine.

Then they were.

And I heard a different story:the landlord's daughter pulls the trigger,shatters her own breast.I packed my bags, gathered my words,let the highwayman ride to his death—no woman as warning slumped overthe musket's muzzle.ta-da-dum

And I wondered:how could a father embrace a daughterwith lines close as poetic foot and meter.How could he weave lovewith blood red ribbons and lace.

And what of closure, the doorending the poem with a click—

no click of hot flint striking powder,but the click of a lock catchingas a woman walks away.