The Blessing

Most of us hand off traumas
like traditions, the bloody, mud-crusted baton

a father bats his son with
before the boy takes it running off into the dark

future. The pain of being human
rains down fire unto the third, the fourth

generation. But Dad—
something happened with you.

Somehow your body tented me, a fort
whose roof caught all the scalding rain

and the ice of your father, the trash
bags he made you pack after graduation

when he kicked you out the final time. Somehow
you brushed the muck from this baton

and kissed my face, saying—run.

Image: Photo by fon, via Rawpixel.