POETRY

Quarry

Casting the stones

I taught my daughter to swim in the county pool, lakes, the ocean,
and the riptide of societal currents that run deep and cold,

I carry the excuse for when he hospitalized my aunt;
when she pushed him away, and my mother said it was her fault.

strapped tight to the stones my grandmother passed along.
“Look here,” as she pointed to the cleavage of my lowered dress —

I carry the shame of the roofies he slipped into my drink —
wearing home his sweats because he had ripped my pants.

“and here” she pointed out the bruise on her arm, wrapped wide
and black along the curve of her bicep. She passed the stone to hold.

I carry forgiving the times he cheated because I wasn’t
giving him everything he wanted fast enough.

I closed my mouth as my daughter strode down the hill
from my uncle’s house to the shore, her yellow suit matching

I carry the terror of when he passed me in a car and all
the times he was his buddies and he whistled and called out.