8/16/12

Dear Papa,

There's still time,
you say.
Mama's counting dinners on our calender,
and I write lists, categorizing
my childhood into boxes.
Here are the figurines picked out of years of
Red Rose tea boxes;
here are teddy bears and
Russian novels and 
when I pick the sweaters off the floor,
you can see the little round marks in the wood,
a tribute to years of impractical shoes.
Here is this body that
isn't mine.

There's still time,
nothing to worry about.
you said.
I was fourteen
and Mama was
nervous when I
unbraided my long, dark hair,
and cut it into the curls that
fall down my back,
my tiny rebellion.
She found out in a phone call,
and felt betrayed.

"You look like a whore," she said,
and I hung up.

You knew better than to intervene,
and I looked at my reflection with
bitter amusement.

For a time, I thought I could own it
if I controlled it.
I found power in shape,
and sought safety in power.

There isn't any, Papa.
 
Love,
yr daughter