My father, the angry man
My father, red faced,
Pinched,
Tight,
Crooked teeth
That ground together
as if chewing on rocks.
My father, stiff
Rigid
Always a frown
Never a smile
Or chuckle
How I used to wonder if he could
If he was capable
How lonely that must feel
To never laugh
To never fold your arms
Around another's neck
To never collapse
Into a chest,
Into a hug,
Hear the lullaby of a
Heart beat softly
Against your ear
His hands, veiny and rough
His finger nails gnawed to the tip
His hands hardened,
Ungiving,
His hands
That are never held
That never caress.
Are they cold?
Do they ache?
Are they sore?
From the tightly bound fists
He always walks with.
Do they ever open?
Reach?
Grasp or
Yearn for warmth
To feel the skin
Of another
Has he ever felt my tiny
Fingers interlock in his...
Would he squeeze?
Would he pull away?
Would he thaw?
Melt?
Or weep?
I would smile
Knowing he was touched
Just for a second
By my hand
By my skin
By my soul
To say I did it once
I touched my father
For a moment
He softened
For a moment
He wasn't an angry man
