War Over Lost Things Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

My father,
Brusque
And paunch
Said to me,
Nudging my shoulders,
While I was almost
Enjoying
Or perhaps
Feigning comfort
In sleep

”Where’s your license? ”
And he told me
In redundancy.
I felt my head spin
In a vertigo of shadows
Overthrown at sea.

”I think I lost it.”
I told him.
And he was seething with anger,
His faced turned to a bloody crimson,
Voice towering over me.

What struck me the most
Was that
He punched the walls,
He even kicked the door
So hard that the door
Heaved a hoarse cry.

I cried
Not because I was scared.

But because,

I wish it was my head
That he kicked.
I wish it was my face
That he punched.

So intense
That afterwards
It would be
Hard to recognize who
I was.

Or even luckier,
If he killed me with
Such a beating.

I won’t hate him.
I think I’d thank him
For he did
What I couldn’t do
To myself.