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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem