Inevitability

Even now I feel the thick
press from his fingers and thumb; with each nightly creak and bend
I see the figure climbing up and over you, standing and using
you to gain his entry to you. This must be how a father feels
at the side of the bed, tracing a finger around faults and cracks;
wondering if he should have locked her away, if he should have acted differently,
or if she's the one, really, to blame for this violation.

Inconsequential I know, all this
melodrama, but perhaps this birth will act as warm catharsis. More
likely though, a stillborn, to be framed and read and read again
before failing its purpose and achieving nothing.

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