Green quilt of haze and light through the mop of treelines;
remembering the fuzz of early evening when the eggs
roll across the irony of a slopped countertop and we
are left spitting our milk onto fathers newly polished wooden
floors -

once, when she was angry
she keyed his car, once
she pissed in his orange juice.

She taught herself to keep a straight face in all
situations, to rearrange herself to accommodate
the swing of a mood.

There is nothing romantic about father -
all bitter. Splinter, rotting teeth, and
melanoma eye sockets, sweat stains on the
bed, and hospital convalescences.

There is nothing spiritual between a
father and a daughter- just blood and bones,
both breakable, changeable, unimportant
in the soffit of time, and her truth
tastes natural, a normal calamity that she
is used to.