Luka

I cannot but imagine

The syllables of your name, gentle and dear,

Spat between possessive teeth;

An unyielding hand

Tearing your soft hair from your scalp

And clothes from your child’s body;

Your confused tears, warm on my shoulder,

When your father broke into you

And your childhood,

Forever perverting the word “family,”

Cementing its new meaning with each thrust –

A word you finally use with trust again,

As your recover from his ultimate betrayal

And come to love.

I cannot but imagine

The choking terror that clutched your throat

As he cast lustful eyes toward your brother.

Did you go willingly that night

When daddy said it was bedtime?

How many nights did you hide your sobs

To keep from waking the shy, slow boy

Who slept in the next room?

What confused adulthood

Grew in your young mind

As you took it upon yourself

To protect your brother

The way your father should have protected you?

I cannot but imagine

Your tears, your pain –

But I also cannot but wonder

Was there ever pleasure as well?

Was there soothing?

Were there condolences?

Did twisted ecstasy wrack your small frame

With unutterable confusion—

Was this pleasure? Pain? Love? Anger?

And if all kids are supposed to love their daddy,

Why does he scare me like this?

Is there something wrong with me?