There are storms in your eyes again,
a broken window upstairs,
a hole in the wall here from your fist earlier.
Arms folded like a chieftain,
you wait for the cross-examination
while I remember when you were just a boy,
tugging on the side of my pants,
happy to see me, saying, “Play, Daddy, play.”
I try to recall the first wave you took,
the one that sent you adrift,
wondering whether it was me
who dropped you in the ocean
or someone else.

Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’m Not Supposed to Be Here and Neither Are You, out now from Unknown Press. You can also find him at http://lenkuntz.blogspot.com.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Rift

  1. Nicky Danielle says:

    Wow. Painful.

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