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How was it possible?
I thought he was much better
looking, the impression
of a seven-year-old whose
daddy was the Prince
of Albuquerque.
I melted, sleet on New Mexico asphalt.
Mutual Assessment
Daddy watched the gate, listing
a bit as he hummed a bedtime
tune, withdrawn from who knows
which memory bank.
“Daddy?” Roses are red, my love.
He overlooked me like sky
above a patch of dirt,
and I realized he, too, searched
for a face suspended in yesterday.
“It’s me.” Violets are blu-oo-oo.
Peculiar eyes, blue-speckled
green like extravagant eggs,
met my own pale aquamarine.
Assessing. Doubt gnawing.
“Hey.” Sugar is … Kristina?
He hugged me, too tightly. Nasty
odors gulped. Marlboros. Jack
Daniels. Straightforward B.O.
Not like Scott’s ever-clean smell.
I can’t believe how
much you’ve grown!
“It’s been eight
