"December 13th"

By Anna Harberger


the more i grow to know

my father,

the less, i find, he loves me


clinging, grasping

how grossly i gripped to his 

middle american sensibilities:

his humor, racist slightly, and the

conservative hymns

i allowed myself to be enveloped in


for now, my

bemused eyes,

intrusive, seek space 

to wallow elsewhere.


when i stopped 

shaving my armpits and began

worship of

long dead chauvinists,


i sat on street sides,

flushed, colder, than

my sunshine sister,


thought it best to take myself 

into the city--


satiate cravings 

for blood.