Her too young jaw locks
And she becomes her father
In this tic, to clench and wrestle
Her heavy breathing seems
Reminiscent of the little girl
Not letting go
Of her bottle
For one second
Chance to make it without…
She gags at the mention
Of breakfast
Quite suddenly,
She says she is repulsed
And it may be
Because it reminds her
Of those café's and
Scattered mornings
Here and there
With her distant father.
He makes her stomach churn
She says, she thinks she never needs
Breakfast again
It wasn't me, it wasn't
Him, it was the way it started
To get tough
To hold on
To promises
That are hard to swallow.
She learned about nourishment,
and its ultimate
End.
Nurture does not provide enough
For closed lips. Empty rooms,
Empty calories, empty pockets
Never kept us alive.
She is learning that it is more
Fruitful to say, than for
Him to hear.
Standing here and listening
Through the cracks,
I see narrow bands of light seeping out.
Forgiveness will be the only key
That opens her too young lockjaw
Allowing the Light its fitting
Liberty.
Painting by Albert Edelfelt, 'At the door' 1901 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.