BETRAYALS At thirteen, I screamed, "You're disgusting," drinking your coffee from a saucer. Your startled eyes darkened with shame. You, one dead leg dragging, counting your night-shift hours, You, smiling past yellowed, gaping teeth, You, mixing the eggnog for me yourself in a fat dime store cup. How I betrayed you, over and over, ashamed of your broken tongue, how I laughed, savage and innocent, at your mutilations. Today, my son shouts, "Don't tell anyone you're my mother," hunching down in the car so the other boys won't see us together. Daddy, are you laughing? Oh, how things turn full circle. My own words coming back to slap my face. I was sixteen when you called one night from your work I called you "dear," loving you in that moment past all the barriers of the heart. You called again every night for a week. I never said it again. I wish I could say it now. Dear, my Dear, with your twisted tongue, I did not understand you dragging your burden of love.
2007-12-07
10:44:34
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