In another world, I'm an eight-and-a-half year old girl with raggedy hair and soft skin,
But this time I sit with my father on our porch and tell him about my day -
About running through goldenrods, and showing him the prickly-ash I caught my shins in.
He smiles at me. I know he'll stay.
But this time I sit with my father on our porch and tell him about my day -
And I know that this is not that world.
He smiles at me. I know he'll stay,
And listen to my story about prickly-ash and bloody ankles undisturbed.
And I know that this is not that world -
Not the one where my dad will really stay, but the one where he will sit silently on the phone
And listen to my story about prickly-ash and bloody ankles undisturbed.
The one where I'm left with the knowledge that there is no porch, is no home.
Not the one where my dad will really stay - but the one where he will sit silently on the phone,
The one where a prodigal father will preach about the mistakes of a repeated sin,
And listen to my story about prickly-ash and bloody ankles undisturbed.
In another world, I'm an eight-and-a-half year old girl with raggedy hair and soft skin.
YOU ARE READING
Not Quite A Woman
PoetryHalf diary, half something else. The feeling of being caught between two different worlds, and of hating men but wanting their attention. Hi. Pantoums, sestinas, a few freeform poems, and whatever else seems fun. New parts get shoved wherever seems...
