I Am No Timid Electra

Hands. We fill buckets with them,
full of raspberries. My father knew
her by them: stained and scarred from
apologies that made hot pies, tarts,
puckered lips that got wiped with
the edge of a shirt.

Red. My father witnessed the color
of his mother’s heart from a knife
his father used for cutting apples,
and prying the lids off of preserves.
She could not be saved from his wrath.

Love. Knowing the thorns that catch—
worth the price for a cup of summer
harvest, my father still plants his
dreams in rows and, beaten red by
the sun, puts ointment on his skin
which drizzles down his back like
tear streaks.

Surrender. I used to weep at the
thought of it: what sound does
the ache take on? When, as a
child, the thorns caught my finger,
my father would hold the mouth of
the wound and gently speak to it, saying: there there, let it bleed, let it bleed like this.

---

---