turning the knife

you are a b a s t a r d

feeling very small and frozen,
like a fetus in a jar,

you are c r u e l

i go to another place:
stopitstopitstopit!

you l o v e to turn the knife

don't do it
stop

shaking
in between them


now
still shaking
hiding
behind [invisible] bedroom doors
everywhere i go.

rage is written plainly
on her forehead
with that ugly pulsing vein she growls
. . . because i love you

no.
this is not love,
this is rage
and you feel holy.

everyone used to say
she looks just like her father.

i used to find ways
to get near him,

[even when you coulden't or woulden't,
even then i forced my way into his world,
learning to speak his silent language]

small
sitting on the piano bench,
its sharp edge
pinching the backs of my knees

imitating him to be loved by him,
for better or for worse.

dad, you're one of my best friends...

well, i don't know how good that is

he's saying
i love you
a thousand times a day
when

all


i


want

is for him to show it
one time

while
all she wants
is to hear him say it
he speaks only in languages of
tears

music: silence

and she won't speak that language
she says, he loves to turn the knife
but the knife she wields,