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.

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2 Responses to “Not a Poem”

  1. It might not be a Poem but it is very beautiful. Thank you.

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