The Gift
AlexBoyd
Registrant
This is my first attempt at poetry here.
The Gift
He was not invited to the wedding,
Yet he sent a gift, again inserting
Himself in my life, just like the three years
He forced his manhood into my childhood,
Uniting our parts and making my wounds
With his gift of soul-killing attention.
And, then, before me waited a gift shaped
Like any other, smoothly wrapped and tied
In pure white. It hid with sheets of tissue,
Tidy, engraved, smarthis calling card,
Rearing its face with that name, good doctor,
The way he presents himself to the world.
Not the man I knew, ages six to nine,
Not the man who called me a hole with a heartbeat.
I stripped back the tissue to find myself
Looking back, reflected in a silver platter.
Square, like the Polaroids he always took,
Shiny, like his images of my child-face
Dripping with his fluids. I know his mind,
Smug, sated, the thought of me casually
Passing hors doeurves to friends and catching
A glimpse of a crying towheads face,
With dark curls tangled in his baby teeth.
Eight years, three moves, two kids, and that platter.
Each time I passed it, he was there waiting,
Even after he died and went to hell.
At last, one night, I told her the secret,
And with that, I rose with the sole purpose
To rid our house of that dead perverts gift.
The Gift
He was not invited to the wedding,
Yet he sent a gift, again inserting
Himself in my life, just like the three years
He forced his manhood into my childhood,
Uniting our parts and making my wounds
With his gift of soul-killing attention.
And, then, before me waited a gift shaped
Like any other, smoothly wrapped and tied
In pure white. It hid with sheets of tissue,
Tidy, engraved, smarthis calling card,
Rearing its face with that name, good doctor,
The way he presents himself to the world.
Not the man I knew, ages six to nine,
Not the man who called me a hole with a heartbeat.
I stripped back the tissue to find myself
Looking back, reflected in a silver platter.
Square, like the Polaroids he always took,
Shiny, like his images of my child-face
Dripping with his fluids. I know his mind,
Smug, sated, the thought of me casually
Passing hors doeurves to friends and catching
A glimpse of a crying towheads face,
With dark curls tangled in his baby teeth.
Eight years, three moves, two kids, and that platter.
Each time I passed it, he was there waiting,
Even after he died and went to hell.
At last, one night, I told her the secret,
And with that, I rose with the sole purpose
To rid our house of that dead perverts gift.
