Girl With Her Hair Cut Short

Summer in Lewiston and my bare thighs burn

against the bench outside the bar.

My dad drinks inside, his heavy fist choking

a beer bottle while I shift in sunshine,

dangling my dirty feet in the chipped lip

of pavement scabbed like my knees.

I pass time, play games where other men

are my father, come over in their clean shirts

and soft hands, tell me I’m the daughter

they have always wanted. I have no choice

but to follow them to idling cars, climb inside

where the air conditioner whispers cool words

of praise.

I know my blood is different, felt it at two years old

when I stood on the couch under the window

and his beat-up Chevy lunged

into my mom’s driveway. I cried

the moment his long legs touched our tired lawn

and he came to the front door to ask my mom

to marry him.

My torn T-shirt is limp on my back and I listen

for his boots to scrape across the floor.

I know the sound of his approach, laid awake

at night before he pushed open my door

and slipped his Army belt from the confines

of his jeans. I know the arch of his instep,

the distance of his stride, wear welts

for falling asleep too soon, forgetting

to lock the blankets tight against my chest.

Cars pass on the main street and I hear the rustle

of conversation falling toward me like leaves lifting

from trees. I turn my head so the short hair falls back.

On the sidewalk, I am my father’s son. My breasts

are a ridge in the cotton of my shirt. When he steps

from the shadows, three beers from now,

he will take my small hand in his hand still jagged

from the chainsaw I dreamed would devour him,

and he will squeeze too tightly.