I NEVER PUSHED MY DAUGHTER
in a stroller through the park.
I never got lost in a trance
as the trees seemed to listen as she
tried out sounds in hopes
of inventing words
for the warm feeling
of a full belly, a pink blanket
and for the first time
a song rocking her
to sleep. Instead I read
an online profile that said
she loved pets and purple
and singing and acting and
had hurts that I would have
to enter, scars like ravenous
mouths I couldn’t escape
if I got close to her like
entering a haunted house
with ghosts in it who
don’t mind being dead but
want me to feel what they felt.
I never held her on my shoulders
up to the monkey bars
giggling, faux afraid of falling.
No, I got her after fire
got her, burned everything
she knew. I could see it
in her eyes. I felt like paper,
like if I touched her it would
torch me, but I told her
this would go away and come back
like traces of lightning bugs
growing fainter and more distant.
I watched Instant Family with her
over and over but only after
she had lived through scenes
she wasn’t old enough
to see in movies.
I never tossed her
into the air, laughing,
sure I’d catch her
and if we played tag
a rolling boulder was it
and it wanted to flatten us
and if we played
hide-and-go-seek
we each hid in the darkness
inside of ourselves, neither
of us sure we’d ever
find our way out.
—from Adjusting to the Lights
2020 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner
__________
Tom C. Hunley: “I started writing poetry at age eighteen after reading ‘In the Desert’ by Stephen Crane. I have now devoted more than 30 years to a study of the delicious bitterness of my heart.” (web)
