You point at dad’s soap

“jambon.”

I pinch my nose.

My wrinkled brow,

and my five-year-old face,

I make you laugh.

I liked him better.

I told you yesterday

when you were yelling.

He was a stranger in our house.

I never knew any different

and you liked it that way.

I liked him better

but I would have picked you

in a heartbeat.

And I was scared to death of that.

His strange kindness compared

to your harsh closeness.

The day he cried;

The day you didn’t die;

They make up my earliest childhood memories.

Ten years later

you’ll tell me the truth

I wasn’t looking for.

I turn my head

and look out the window,

so the cab driver doesn’t see my tears.