Father and Their Daughter
This morning I crook my arm out the pickup window
hoping the sun will burn a sleeve line like his.
As we pass my Bible school he accelerates.
I know we’re going to set a headstone.
Don’t tell your mother.
I lean back in the cab crooning,
Little ones to him belong
they are weak but he is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me, he shouts
swerving through the wrought iron arch of Aetna Cemetery.
I don’t like to think why he stomps the clutch.
The sun’s full on Alma Bridge’s brand new angel
when he cracks a stolen grouse egg over its face.
Somewhere nearby is an empty nest,
a lone quail sounding her gathering cry.
I try to hold on to myself
the way I do when he strikes me
but this time something about the light
makes me start to disappear.
Yolk bleeds like a wounded sun,
white slipping down marble cheeks
until it cooks and he pricks the yolk with an awl,
scrapes what he can on a trowel.
Eat it, why don’t you?
He’s had too much warm beer, that’s why he talks like that.
Okay I will.
Shutting my eyes
I sink my teeth into his hand.