Eight punches in,
tinnitus and swollen eyes collapsed
the world into
a building
forgotten.
Where beyond
windows,
tall pines
staggered more
than my father
in a fist fight.
My inheritance–
stamped purple
on his cheek–
too subtle
to see
until
I rose from the sidewalk
and caught a reflection
in storefront glass. Myself
obscured behind bruises
and blood and lost years–
adolescence crushed
in clenched hands. Unable
to understand what was attacking
me from within, everyone
became an enemy.
Twenty years old,
a hundred miles from home,
my fingers unfurled
and, as if for the first time, I felt
the breeze flow through them like
branches of a sapling.
[Note: This piece first appeared in Volume 55, Issue 2 of Wisconsin Review]