Even now I feel the thick
press from his fingers and thumb;
with each nightly creak and bend
I see the figure climbing up
and over you, standing and using
you to gain his entry to you.
This must be how a father feels
at the side of the bed, tracing
a finger around faults and cracks;
wondering if he should have locked
her away, if he should have acted differently,
or if she's the one, really, to blame for this violation.
Inconsequential I know, all this
melodrama, but perhaps this birth
will act as warm catharsis. More
likely though, a stillborn, to be
framed and read and read again
before failing its purpose and achieving nothing.
