There is a crescent moon scar
where my four year old toe slipped 
into the too-wide gap in the stainless
steel bars of the fan on the floor, 
and the waning evidence
of a lack of parental vigilance
where the fleshy part below my thumb 
was pinched in the clothes wringer.
 
Before science and law dictated
the safest width and height,
prescribed helmets, 
made us fear the light, 
we basted our skin with baby oil, 
poured flat beer on our hair, 
skated without elbow pads,
learned to flee or fight. 
 
When first failed loves made their mark,
I begged for second chances. 
When my father left the marriage,
my mother, me, I left 
without a glance. Stoic, 
just like him, untouched -- 
as I remain: a not admitting 
of the wound, that waxing stain.

Today I rode my headache a hundred miles
to find myself at 8 with a mango in the bathtub, 
juice dribbling down my chin, coarse hair 
stuck in my teeth –  my father nearby
joyous with the indulgence.
I promise to come out of here alive.
 
I’m ashamed of the shame 
I have wrought upon my children,
my son washing his hands 
sticky with juice, over and over,
the water running hot in the sink.
 
His hands are reddened, all fruit
scoured away. I can’t find a way 
to bring him to the table,
to peel away the skin,
quarter the orange flesh, 
and score it, fold each section back 
so each square protrudes, inviting tooth
and tongue, cutting loose.
 
The mess is contained, washed away;
the pit remains, gnawed to the bone. 
I know in the end none of this matters.