his belt
His Belt
Chubby fingers
traced gently, each weblike pattern,
hot tracks laid haphazardly across
pink flesh.
Standard issue
Air Force garb,
the belt's buckle,
held a clapper, of sorts
which clanged loudly
through each rage.
If you didn't cry
he wasn't forceful enough.
Cry too loudly, you were faking.
Tell on others, you were a tattle tale.
If you didn't, an accomplice.
Lie and you were punished.
Confess and you were punished too.
We learned lessons quickly
when Papa came home from Vietnam.
The problem was,
there were always new lessons.
Mary
his belt
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