Theodora Abigail

091814
Rojo
Secretly we would all
prefer to destroy. The way
it goes is simple:
(1) tear it apart
(2) light it on flames
(3)take a bat and swing right through it.
And then we'd pinch a
splinter (a hint of soot)
out of the rubbish
and quit.
And perhaps then I would finally
forgive my father for
the lessons he taught me and
the suggestions that I become
a martyr for the people within
my heart.
Lo siento, Papi
I can do this no more.
After such a time of being
the comforter,
it begins to ache
when I am
kicked off the bed.
Mama, secretly I am a narcissist,
irresponsibly selfish. The
hand you taught me
to look for, the embrace I was
told not to live without: I cannot
desire them anymore. I know them
not, no, never,
cease.
The shattered remnants of
last night's tirade are still

strewn about the living room

floor (authentic cherry hardwood,
see). If I pick these up
and run the risk of
slicing my fingers on them
and quit
would I be forgiven?
Father,
I am sorry.
Mother,
Estoy solo ahora.
I wake up early, when the dust
lays beneath the dirt, and
I roll the dough with Mama.
I shape it in
my hands, and despite the thousand
puckered scars that
litter this imperfect vessel,
despite these sticky
fingers,
the dough sinks under
its tired weight
into miraculous and
perfect
circles.
Secretly I am a narcissist,
and secretly we would all
prefer to destroy. We toss the
ashes over our head, turn out
the contraband flashlight, and
quit.
Sweaga