Many nights I wished him dead,
my father--
his thudding up the stairwell,
heavy, like a pallbearer in polyester pants—
coming to plant one forehead kiss
to check that I am sleeping.
I faked obedient sleep—
a sham angel,
to make Daddy leave my small world unsullied.
I could never escape
being bad.
Even at five, Daddy’s derision—
my willfulness—
a stink so vile
it permeated air like rot in a closed room.
Shame was the only sense I could make of it.
Kisses are a decoy.
I use them too—
entwine to sniff out adultery—
perfume,
an overlay of salt and soap,
pungent cunt underneath my husband’s tongue.
Kisses elicit lies.
Like the rapist who whispered
“I love you”,
stroking my hair.
Flattery and attention disarm me.
The last good kiss
at fourteen—
my first taste of boy.
Desire was a property of the self.
But Father’s kiss
conscripted me into a supporting role—
a world where tenderness
was performance.
At five, I thought I saw affection.
I giggled. My eyes opened. Another?
I will never forgive Daddy
his whiskey and cigar kiss
given only
when I was compliant—
as a corpse—
my return of affection
diminished him.
His rage marked me—
renewed in every false kiss.
