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.
Not Quiet Any More 