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
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.