Sleep never gave me a way to escape you.

I remember how you felt,
all red tides and mud stained hands.
You fished for faith in
obscene ways, left me

to say
I am my father's daughter.

Does that make you sick?

Do you remember the
outdoors?—your adobe touch?
You were younger then with
your daughters, your
young bride.
You swore you could leave
them for dead. You,

my father,
said that we will become what we hate
but we are not you;
the unprejudiced abuse of
aggressive hands, of hard words
and harsher stares. You

brought me these fevered dreams
of missing you, but abhorring you.
Your sermons, your
caustic killing breath breathing
sour air onto my neck. I

will always be my father's daughter.
I will always be ill more than you,
thinking of hands that graced these curves, that made me
a body meant for less.

Father, daddy.
I sleep to let ghosts lie.