She sits grim-faced in the living room, her bent eyes upon the staggered lines of the cedar wood floor where he stands half-cocked, waving his arms around in the sticky air as if fighting off fierce ghosts. All she sees are the dismal shadows of his flailing arms as she grips her teddy bear tight, the smell of whiskey hemorrhages through the air, her eyes trained on the hardwood floor, her tiny back, stiff, waiting. Soon it will get deathly quiet. She’ll know he is there, she will feel his warm and liquored-breath on her hair. She’ll close her eyes and hold her infant spirit in, waiting on his coarse hands to embrace her skin. Her teddy bear will let go of her hand and fall, and he'll weep and rock her gently to his chest, His tears will fall down upon her as his sad hands begin to twist inside her hair. “Sorry”, will again spill from Daddy's unhappy mouth and she’ll wrap her trembling around his arm, never letting go. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)