From above it must have looked
almost nice, the three of us talking
like that, though it was the sweat
in the palm of my hands that gave
it away while the lawyer combed
through my memories,
and the matching lines
on our foreheads were dark
as grooves in wet pavement.

I don’t even know if you’re getting these messages.

If there was anything left
from the time before, it was
certainly gone now. My tongue
was littered with disfigured
phrases: willful or threatened
acts, polyvagal EMDR, wanton
disregard for the physical wellbeing

I was getting discouraged when I got no response, but I decided to double down and keep reaching out to you.

of a child, alienation. Abuse.
There is no easy way to say this.
I was all mouth then, words
a river’s current, body a shuttered
home, heart bruise-black and beating.

You may want to reconsider that last statement. It will have lasting implications for you.

A light goes off. Another comes on.
In the corner of a bedroom, the softened figure
of a candle keels over in its heat, and I spoke,

I give you my word — it won’t be a painful process.

all the while thinking of a limp limbed girl
napping in her father’s arms and knowing
a river is just a body

You’ll always be my daughter.

running.

Theodora Bonis (she/her) is a writer and art educator based in Burlington, VT. She is the author of Shadowing, a poetry collection, and her work has been featured in Eunoia Review. Sweetgrass Root