Not a Poem
I don’t feel poetic tonight
I feel sweaty, sticky, raw from a loud and violent day
with my four-year-old.
Atop the china cabinet is our armory:
Golf clubs, a toy fishing pole, a plastic shovel, a piece of wood splintered from a door jamb.
A plastic sword, a paddle covered with suction cups for catching the rubber ball, a bag of lifesaver
jellybeans (don’t ask me why).
It’s not that he wants to hurt me
It is the same thing in me that is in him that I got from my father like my brother:
This fury, escaping through the force of a fist.
This wall of turmoil inside, piling up behind the lump in my throat that closes it off from
the words that might rescue me, from the healing I might do, from the forgiveness I might need.
These things we choke on -
they are our doom.
And our salvation.
It might not be a Poem but it is very beautiful. Thank you.
Thank you so much for the kind compliment! I’m so glad you found me, and I promise I will be back soon.