The strike of a matchstick, a dull light far
across the room. There’s a boy at my
window _or maybe just a blackbird.
You played your favorite song that night
on the drive home, I forgot to turn it off.
To be more like you, I play it in my head, and
imagine a love far from what you’ve shown at home.
Clenched fists and slamming doors
mom said, “this is love, powerful and consuming.”
wood splinters, trembling teeth, and firewood to
keep the house warm.
But it is August, the month of
the fierce sun and it will ignite.
Sometimes, I think you forget
daughters are not the reflections of their
mothers, neither are they god.
They do not forgive.
The boy from the window came back,
no sharp claws
unfamiliar and unsettling; blinds drawn
shut, love’s seeds left unsown.
What did you expect? That I wouldn’t grow
to love the soil and dirt? “you’re just like your father,
you have his chin” your words sting.
My chin like your anger,
crooked disjoint and slant.
You were also just a boy,
rediscovering his face in the mirror.
A time when I had known you to be
nothing but kind, with your daughter’s arms around you.
You never forgot to hug me before walking out the door
you gave me your mother’s face, but you
forgot to forgive me for it.