Day 12: Excavation

Are you

brave enough

to be discovered?

I promise I’ll be gentle –

as gentle as one can be

while one excavates a soul.

I’ll pull the scales loose

lovingly.

It will be more

undressing

than dissection. I’m

good at that.

You’ll tell me you read children’s books—

not with your radiant bundle giggling on your lap

but late, alone by lamplight

in a room painted with shadows, where

you always realize halfway through the book that

you’re the child,

and you cry, uncertain

whether you are sad

or deeply grateful.

I’ll tell you about the night

I polished off the homemade hooch

at an apartment party, and a

doped-up rennie grabbed my hand

and looked into my eyes

to tell me “Daddy’s sorry,”

which had no meaning for me, but

was magic in the sense

that he believed it

so I smiled and let a tear

roll down my face.

I’ll always ask you why.

And when things get

too quiet

I will wait.

You have to want

to be seen.

When I find you

it will hurt

the way that grieving does,

the way it hurts to notice

that your skin has gotten loose

and bunchy at the joints.

But that will fade

because you’ll know

someone was looking for you,

begging you to want

to be discovered.

I’ll tell you that you’re beautiful,

and you in turn

can tell me if my

truths are truths,

and if you can forgive me

for discovering.