I hope you’ll understand

30 Mar

My father is the son of an old man, who himself was the son of an old man. He is sort of an impossibility – the son of a WWI veteran hanging out in the future. He is unforgettable, I think, because he wasn’t supposed to be.

I’m soaking up every moment of him that I can, which is both fruitless and kind of offensive. I’ll never have enough of him and couldn’t wouldn’t shouldn’t I have been better anyway?

We fried oysters and peeled shrimp, rolled joints and laughed so hard. We are making plans.

I drove Sean by the old pool where I learned to swim. Someone lives there now and made a home of my pool. You can live in the pool, I guess, but I am still swimming. My legs are strong, like an ox.

I hugged my uncle by marriage and he told me he liked the feel of my breasts against him. There was no blood or humanity or space between us.

There are so many ways to be a man. There are so many daughters.

I was matched with a man who skipped two generations to cherish me and give me a name. He rolled out of Mississippi to tame my Yankee mama.

Like any travelling man, he may only stay a very short time. But this moment with him – this not enough of him that I am confronting

Is worth 100 years of a man

Who held me as a baby and feels, in me, a woman to defile.

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