I know you know

how it feels to have him crush you into the pavement

with his words and his anger, only to scrape you

like something he stepped in, scrape you

off the bottom of his boot. Your innate value

is pummeled by the metaphorical butt of his gun. It could just be the way

he knits his brows together into an impatient frown, or taps

his feet into the dance of frustration, or the way he seems to nearly run

away from you when you only wanted to say hello. No voice on you.

I hear you choking through the smiles and the Yes, Sirs

and the Of Courses, and the I’ll Get It Right Aways. I hear you puking

up your rage and up your power and whoosh it goes

straight down the vortex of thelootheheadthejohn. The Head, The John

My wish, from the first time I used my lungs to trumpet the advent of Me,

to this moment when I cringe in the revelation that I am swallowing

something

that isn’t good for me –

my wish has always been this:

To honor you, to honor me.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019