My Father used to say, peace be with you…
But it never was.
Holding a stark bare cross above the bedroom door…
I had been taught ‘this is love.’
Father would shake my hand until life caught hold
Eventually, in obsession, he became less bold.
My Father had sent me to deviant schools.
I had been taught of prejudice, good books, how to look for fools.
Of course, there are moments when you are missed.
Flickering, shuttering, moments…when I see you in the lines upon my face.
Had you held a more sturdy hand…I would have worn less leather…more lace.
I beg for you now, as I had many years before.
The offering of ‘us.’
The magic of father and daughter and the confines of a normal culture.
Morals and majority could never have lived in our home, sweet, home.
Knives and threats were the beliefs in which WE all felt sure…and unsure.
These heroic days that come to pass…feed on every ounce I own with a fervent sign telling all, do not trespass.
To the living and the not so…just another day in which I hope to not crash.