How Much Of What We Talk Poem by Kirby Wright

How much of what
We talk
Is not for the lover
But the father
Who listens
Through the phone?
He calls me
By my brother’s name.
Why did I always
Do worse
After his criticism
Than better?
Listen? He never listened.
His ears were
Too big for his head.
Mother cooked safe
Things—boiled eggs,
Buttered toast, Sanka with milk.
I rebel by killing me
A little at a time.
There was a time
(The 60s, I think)
When all I was
Was a peanut on legs.
I am the same legume,
Only smaller,
Craving love
After years of chaos.