A wrench, a wooden spoon, and a broomstick

A wrench, a wooden spoon and a broomstick

I never wore a swimsuit without a tee shirt over it as a kid. My
father told everybody it was because I sunburned easily, but
the sun didn’t cause the blue-black bruises on my back.
It’s our little secret he would say, and I would just keep quiet
as he raged around me with his look-at-m-while-I’m-talking-to-you
smile and punctuated every punch with the same
I-only-do-this-because-I-love-you.
I’d sit there and close my eyes because it pissed him off even more.
Distrust, taught to me by a father who knew jack shit about teaching. Taught
me to flinch every time someone even put a hand on my shoulder and I
would come home from kindergarten to play Russian roulette guessing
which mood my father would be in that afternoon.
Most of the time, I guessed wrong.

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