The Day I Hit My Father

His eyes are red. I can’t recall

What propels my hand. Hard


To remember who was more shaken.
I am a charter subscriber


To Women’s Sports and Ms. magazines.

I am proud that he is proud of me.


But his slurred reply still stings:

If you were a boy, I would take you outside.


Blood floods muscles, mind.

Go ahead, I beg. Let me have it.

Published in Poet Lore