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“The Last Time I Hit My Daughter
Little Wind was 5
and I was a broken man
ruined by divorce and barely alive
in one tiny room of a boarding house,
hating what I had become.
One day I swatted Little Wind on her belly
And ordered her into the hall; dumb
with old sorrows, I closed the door.
Horror instantly vanquished rage.
I opened the door and she stood there
straight and unflinching, old in her age,
she was the noblest human being I ever saw.
On my knees there my life changed, ceased
falling, raised good bread from damaged yeast.”
― Art of Dying: Poems
Little Wind was 5
and I was a broken man
ruined by divorce and barely alive
in one tiny room of a boarding house,
hating what I had become.
One day I swatted Little Wind on her belly
And ordered her into the hall; dumb
with old sorrows, I closed the door.
Horror instantly vanquished rage.
I opened the door and she stood there
straight and unflinching, old in her age,
she was the noblest human being I ever saw.
On my knees there my life changed, ceased
falling, raised good bread from damaged yeast.”
― Art of Dying: Poems
