I must have done something
to deserve it, I don’t recall.
Slouching from the room
I’d muttered and mumbled
and my father - drained from a business trip -
had heard
what hours on the road
chasing endless disappointment
had put him in the mood to hear,
stood wearily
and undid his belt.
After the beating, I learned, years later,
he had slumped into his armchair and cried more than I had.
Now I am my father’s age
somehow the thought of him,
sunk beneath the weight of blows
beyond my understanding,
falls harder on me.
