Daddy, I Was Angry, Too

I was angry, too,

so I sat down beside her in the mauve painted bedroom.

Your face lay in fragments,

strewn about the floor.

The carpet was brown,

and worn too thin.

Loose threads tickled my bare legs.

I crossed my legs,

and selected a photo album.

The kitchen shears felt good in my irrational young hands.

I lifted you from a yellowed page,

and considered the length of your hair.

You looked like the Catholic Jesus Christ, and I decided

I quite liked the sarcasm.

I thought no more

about ruining such a fine image of you and your AMC Javelin.

Instead, I selected something forgettable.

She watched me with wet red eyes and a sick smile.

You know, my mother is the only person I’ve ever known who

actually made the boo-hoo sound when she cried.

And she cried.

She always cried

back in those trailer park days.

Those days when your two girls were raised by

junkyard dogs.

I was angry, too,

so I excised your fucking face from 

paper memories.

I was angry, too,

and I am angry, now.

Angry at a dead woman.

I don’t have to tell you any of this.

I already know what you would say,

and I love you for it.