what the grass couldn't do for me

the man on the motor 

outside my window-

black as day

curtain-covered-

is my father

I wonder politely what

the grass did to

him:

nothing he could have

done

to me

nothing he could have done

nothing different

nothing like that night

when I was five

and didn't want to be

tickled

in a dark room

like the one I 

inhabit now as I copy down my

own words

I threatened 

to shoot my own

father

not the one up 

there

no I don't trust

his pointing finger

this father more 

realistic

harsh and unfeeling-

ever wonder where I got the 

idea 

from?-

he left 

and came back with his

rifle 

loaded it

pointed it at me

thrill of a second 

shot spit and anger

I hid under my bed-side

table 

with the little drawer

where I kept all the secrets

I wished I had

to keep my plastic

ponies

company

I was used to hysteria 

by the time I could talk

and realized

sometimes people wouldn't 

talk back

so I talked back for them

but in this moment 

the hysteria 

didn't speak

I cried like a selfish

bitch 

reassured of what I was

then my father handed me

the gun

"I am your father

and you are going to

shoot me-

fucking shoot 

right at my heart."

and he took his pointer finger

and circled the target

coordinate 

a good poet 

would recollect the 

feel of the gun on my knees

and the weight 

and the measurements

perhaps the caliber

but I was five

and this was real

unlike most of 

my new-found realities

one last point

towards the cause 

and the ending-

drilling back through the 

salty shit

moister on my chin

in my cheeks

flooding irises

all I knew

was the afternoon we spent lying

on his bedroom 

floor

me on his chest

pretending not to be pressed

there

for his heartbeat

"no, it's ok

you can listen.

put your head back."

crouched under the

table now

head hanging down

eyes tight

"put your head back

goddammit."

thankfully he

got tired of standing,

took the gun

and took his leave