THE SCARS ON MY FATHER.

Dad punched David, the
oldest. With
his fist full of
rings.

But David wore more
and cut Dads upper lip.

And at six I
ran my finger
diagonally across it

asking, "Daddy, Daddy.
Where did you get
this? Does it hurt, Daddy?"

And even though I am
his daughter he yanks
my small wrist away and says
"It's nothing."

But his scar is pointing
to the tear dropping
down his face

and that tear catches
the groove of his scar
and slides between the
seam of his lips forming

a place for his tongue to lick. And
Dad has let go of my wrist,
telling me to go

ask mother what is for dinner.

-sonja lynn mata