Come home now, it’s safe.
I’ve posted signs at all four corners of the property: No Molesters.
Not to say you’ve recovered
memories of mishandling (at six, at seven)
but still. Besides, all is forgiven,
so what, you ran away from home?
No biggie, after all you were pregnant, ready for adult
labors, predisposed to bare your breasts in public.
Surely you deserve some of the blame, you
who came between your parents like a balloon heart?
Besides, it was your mother who made you blue,
leaving you with a careless neighbor-girl
while she mourned her days in a bathrobe
ironing in the kitchen, listening to the radio,
chain-smoking. But everyone smoked then.
And yes, I know your father tickled you pink,
in all your pink places. I also know how it feels
to have a man’s hands
around your neck, body lifted, head rammed
at the wall. But stewing is not the answer.
I wish there was something I could say to make it better.
Truth is, nothing happened, you just had an overactive
bladder or imagination or something. You
once saw your parents doing something strange together. Later,
you saw them fucking. Time changes perspective.
They’re both dead now. There, there.
No, not there. Here, here. Look away.
Learn to unlove.