I was sixteen
I broke up all the furniture in my room
I took it to the garage
Receptacle of our highest tragedies:
Old license plates
My father‘s honorary degrees and
Framed membership
In the millennium clubs
He could not endure
Cars were unwelcome in our garage.
My father did not hit me in the face
As usual
When he did not like my lip
It was as though it had been expected
As though he understood
This shucking of our shared past
The second-hand Christmas presents
The furniture left behind by the Rileys
Too ill to move it out
Their dust
Their dirt
Their ownership
A lovely Victorian wardrobe
In broken gaslight‘s light
Not mine.
No it was not the usual hand
Coming at me
As fast as I could snarl.
He had tried after all
He had painted all my furniture pink
In secret places
The pink hung in long enamel tears.
I could not have known the value
Of what we had gladly
Demolished together.