All right.
[SOUND OF YAWNING] [LAUGHTER]
I'm tired.
[LAUGHTER]
Two more.
This poem's going to really tire you out,
so I have a relief poem after that.
I've been working on it since last February a year ago.
And it was very hard to finish.
And no teachers-- nobody's seen it, nobody to give me advice.
So I don't know, but.
One person saw it and I didn't let him finish telling me
what bothered him, so.
It's called "Child Beater."
Outside the rain, pinafore of gray water, dresses the town.
And I stroked the leather belt as she
sits in the rocking chair, holding a crushed paper
cup to her lips.
I yell at her but she keeps rocking.
Back, her eyes open.
Forward, they close.
Her body somehow fat, though I feed her only once a day,
reminds me of my own, just after she was born.
It's been seven years but I still can't forget how I felt.
Period.
How heavy it feels to look at her.
I lay the belt on a chair and get her dinner bowl.
I hit the spoon against it, set it down,
and watch her crawl to it, pausing
after each forward thrust of her legs.
And when she takes her first bite, I grab the belt
and beat her across the back until her tears, beads
of salt-filled glass, fall and shatter on the floor.
I move off.
I let her eat while I get my dog's chain
leash from the closet.
I whirl it around my head, oh, daughter, so far you've
only had a taste of icing.
Are you ready now for some cake?