Daddy

this did not beginsome warm December nightas we stood on the cracksof your driveway,as you explained to me howeven this concrete patch outsideyour new home could not be minefor an hour.

this did not beginwithin the heartof my mother’s bitternessor the years it took her to growinto your leave-taking.

and it does not rest,like an esteemed baby,in my agnate sister’shighly regarded resentmentof me, or in her jawbone thatunquestionably mimics your own.

this, daddy, is a creeping thing,a round geometry trying to consumeitself, becoming, in fact, no biggerthan your unlearned pupil.

there is, daddy, a darkness lyingwait in your eyes that inverts my face,that takes me by my ankles and rattlesme until every bit of changefalls from my pockets.

and I am, daddy, even now,still afraid of that dark.