IV Ill 0 ^ ^ Our Natural Food Begins w ith Natural Farming P.O.Box 568, 311 Dillard St. Concrete, WA 98237 200 853-8175 Fax 853 8353 Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90 15 Po r tia , OR 221 - tm But once I turned eleven, 1was Reeling. I was wanting boyfriends. And I thought my brightness scared them. So I scuffed and draped it. How my Father reeled and cast our bindings Off. It was an act that ripped the Cords that gave the Form to my young Heart. He used to strip the rollers from my Scalp at dinner. How I cried each Night at dinner. How I cried. He’d Barely open up his mouth. His Thick red lips. Volcanic father. Fire spewing. Then I heard him whisper to my Mother that he loathed me. Loathed the Mess of life I’d made. It was a Temporary mess. A youthful Mess. I’d merely flailed and lost my Footing. But my Father had no mercy. So I told my mother she should Leave him several times. My mother Tried to calm me. She said that he Barked but did not bite. I begged to Differ. He was Teething on my Tissues. if. ■ M Now my father walks with canes. A veteran of a dozen slicings. How he loves recuperations. It’s his only proof that he has Strength to beat the Odds. To keep on Healing. Now my father walks with canes and I can’t hear his rueful plaihtives. . I know that he’s trying hard to Show me that he loves me. But my Ears are still offended. So I Make it hard. I guess it’s Paybacks. Still he nears his Brink of passing. And I’ll mourn him madly. I would Love to call him Daddy. Play Flirtatious daughter games and Stroke his cheek and hug and Kiss his pate. I Hope my heart soon Opens and starts Heeding its directives. I can Feel it bleeding Bursting vessels. I am really trying because All he really did was have no Comprehension of the female Sex. The verb: To touch. The phrase: With warmth. The adverb: Softly. My regret is That I never Called him Daddy So Happy birthday, Daddy. I Love You. Poet Leanne Grabel lives in Portland, where she s raising a daughter of her own. An award-winning author in Clinton St, her last work in our pages was the poem “I Tipped a Toddler.” (ACADIAN ^fARM
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