That means that I mean business now.
See, I'm getting all straightened up.
OK, I'm going to get into the poems
that I'm sort of serious about.
Oh, I meant to give you comic relief before this one,
but I decided, why should I?
You don't deserve it.
You'll get it afterward.
This is the one-- it took me a year to write it.
And it's a good poem, I think, but it's horrible,
the whole subject.
So I'll allow a little silence afterwards
so you can sort of ingest it.
It's called, "Child Beater."
"Outside, the rain, pinafore of gray water, dresses the town.
And I stroke the leather belt. And 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.
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 falling, 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?"
Boy, what a depressor.