My father,
he was of the sort willing
and able
to kick me out of the family.
His threat came three times.
Not once, or, oops, twice,
but three times that cruelty was uttered, even written,
knives thrown not in spirit alone, but in substance:
To a child that is survival at stake.
And belonging.
And…so much and…
My hands tremble and my heart pounds with
the memory of it.
I grieve for her, the young one who had to stand there
and take it.
He forgot. I couldn’t.
His violence lives in me. I work with the wounds
daily.
What he was never given he could not give.
What I was never given, I intend to learn.
Some days it is a story, a living aspect
of history.
Other days I must rise up, in frightened fury,
to say no.
Absolutely not.
What family there is that is mine,
wherever they be,
their fullness of heart and vision and being
reside within and around me,
and my hands and heart can return the gifts
I have been given
in stillness and
without reserve.
Salt, Smoke, Water and Stone 