You never complained,

faced your pain, saw your

abuse, stood your ground, 

claimed your voice, asked for 

help, or held on for something 

better.  

You never asked

what Dad was like when we 

worked alone in the scorching

sun, mowing, slicing living 

things into forced submission. 

He was always kind to flowers, 

and dogs, and never heard his 

own father’s voice when he 

wielded words like a wicked set of pruning shears, all sticky with sap 

on the steel. 

Bend down, gather, lift, discard,

bend, tie, carry, start again. 

I claim my voice, I face

my pain. I see my abuse. I

stand my ground. I ask for help, I

hold on for something better. 

I know all about Dad. He’s fine. 

He’s an ass. He’s a trustworthy 

man in most corporeal matters. 

You are always kind to books

and cats and never hear 

your own mother’s voice when 

you wield your words like

poison darts, sticky and sweet

on the needles.