My father really
Did think,
He
Believed with all
Of his infinite
Wisdom
That a 25 year
Old father
Raised by
A German baron
Who lived
In the Philippines,
Who had servants
To order around
At the age of
Five…
Who only had
Landmine fields
Near his house
To play in
Until his mother
Married an
Alcoholic American GI
To escape
The Japanese blitz
& his murderous
Uncle…
He had
Such great examples
For a young
American boy,
That he would know,
Of course,
Twenty years later,
How
To raise
A fragile daughter…
Love was brutality.
Love was mental terrorism.
Love was belts
& two by fours,
Wire and kindling
To thwack our
Legs, arms,
And baby butts.
I couldn't save
My baby brother
Any better than
My arm could
My own
Backside.
I know
You've wondered
Why I never
Talk about
My parents much.
During the holidays
How you'd
Go around the table
Talking about
Christmas's past
& being grateful
That no one
Asked me
About mine.
Unknowingly
Beaten and battered
Monsters did
What they did
Because they really
Did believe
It was
Love.
I'm not the only one
With a figure
In my closeted
Past,
Hoping it will
Stay there
Because
Our closet
Goes everywhere
We do.
The best we
Can do
Is not do
What they
Did
To us,
And call it
Love.
