She is your daughter.
Your tongue flaps,
like a catfish dragged
from muddy water
on pointed hook,
between her iron jaws.
Jaws that snap shut
into the flat line
of your EKG the day
your hairy heart stopped.
Each time she smiles your cigarette-
stained teeth grind me in the face,
daring me to hold her gaze.
She spits curses, anger
and obscenities; your words,
like anvils, still pounding
upon my weary head.
Your coal-like eyes accusing
from beneath those lashes—
still aware of my every thought.
She bare your crooked nose,
your wicked words, your twisted
thoughts, and hammer hand.
It is your snake-skin palm
across my face,
once—
and again.

~ by Samantha Lê

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First published in Corridors

Copyright © 2001 by ​Samantha Lê
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