Not A Poem Poem by Francis Santaquilani

It's flush left,

The first letter

In each line is

Capitalized, and

I use a simile, but

It's more police report

Than poem.


At just past 7 a.m.,

On a Saturday,

My father slapped my face.

He slapped my face

Because I didn't eat

The scrambled eggs he made.

It was easy for him to slap my face

Because it reminded him

Of the people he hated.

He hated my face.


He slapped my face so hard that

My heart stopped beating,

I stopped breathing, my eyes

Bounced around in their sockets, and

My cheek was pushed hard

And deep into the empty space

Where a tooth was.


Then he quickly went back up to his room,

He was always going back up to his room,

And he slammed the door.


My face was numb, my arms went limp

And my legs buckled. I watched

The squares on the kitchen floor go up

And down. The bicyclists

On the wallpaper moved.


My heart became bloated with sadness.

More than ever before.

It dropped, like a water balloon

Falling to the sidewalk

From a second story window

With a never ending anticipation

Of destruction.