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Description
When I was young, my father was flames and jagged rocks, rusted iron and splintered ice.

Sometimes I see shards of him wedged in my skin, like little pieces of glass or splinters that I just couldn't pluck out because they went in far, far too deep.

I will tremble like a rabbit’s heart, startled by the sudden outline of a bird, my death so imminent but uncertain until I feel myself being lifted above the now distant ground.

This looming prescence is a barbed cage for which I grew to large, wings slowly crushed and mangled as I thought to break away and take flight.

But sometimes I feel like I wear a pelt of kindness in order to skulk closely behind my quarry.

Unknowing what I hunt, uncaring until I can feel the thrill of wind through my matted hair, great paws striking, tearing, ripping away at mother earth.

I see him in my sturdy hands, made from old trees and poisoned, cracking wells.

He sees himself in the oozing shadows that haunt me, hovering around the lines of my face.
We carry our memories like crackling thunder in our shotgun shell eyes.

Nevertheless, I want to be the good part of my father. The little fractals of crystal-light that sometimes flare up in the sun.

The deep timbre of his laugh and the determination laced in the calluses of his hands.

Though now he reaches up for sunlight, like the great crown of an oak tree,

I don't know if I can ever escape the way I was nurtured in the deep dark soil of our family's tree,

nor can I forget on what we fed our gnarled and twisted roots.

Description
When I was young, my father was flames and jagged rocks, rusted iron and splintered ice.

Sometimes I see shards of him wedged in my skin, like little pieces of glass or splinters that I just couldn't pluck out because they went in far, far too deep.

I will tremble like a rabbit’s heart, startled by the sudden outline of a bird, my death so imminent but uncertain until I feel myself being lifted above the now distant ground.

This looming prescence is a barbed cage for which I grew to large, wings slowly crushed and mangled as I thought to break away and take flight.

But sometimes I feel like I wear a pelt of kindness in order to skulk closely behind my quarry.

Unknowing what I hunt, uncaring until I can feel the thrill of wind through my matted hair, great paws striking, tearing, ripping away at mother earth.

I see him in my sturdy hands, made from old trees and poisoned, cracking wells.

He sees himself in the oozing shadows that haunt me, hovering around the lines of my face.
We carry our memories like crackling thunder in our shotgun shell eyes.

Nevertheless, I want to be the good part of my father. The little fractals of crystal-light that sometimes flare up in the sun.

The deep timbre of his laugh and the determination laced in the calluses of his hands.

Though now he reaches up for sunlight, like the great crown of an oak tree,

I don't know if I can ever escape the way I was nurtured in the deep dark soil of our family's tree,

nor can I forget on what we fed our gnarled and twisted roots.