—AND I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE, BUT I WON’T DO THAT

 

Tentacles

 

 

When you 

come home

for Christmas 

that year 

just paroled 

from prison 

for having  

killed a man 

I freeze during 

each story 

about “punk” 

rape and rusty 

shivs gutting a

bloated “rat” 

I am nine and 

frightened

and you are a 

scarecrow 

come-to-life 

with limbs like 

muscled tentacles 

their reach 

unknowable 

And that night 

in bed

when I can at last

stop shaking 

I lie wondering 

about the 

real meaning 

of the words

cell and genetics 

and molestation 

while out my 

window all there is

are stars

some bright 

some bleak 

each of them 

huddled together 

awkwardly

in vacant confusion