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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