The Golfers Hands
Familiar they formed over mine, I was a little girl, I wanted to be taught, I needed to be able to say, My daddy taught me how to hit, I pulled my arms up and the movement in the air was a terrifying swing, I didn’t know where he had gone, or why he left, I was so past the questions, but the answers rose, I never saw a petal on the course, not one, he loves me he loves me not, he taught me how to stand when I swing, and all I wanted to say was, my daddy taught me how to stand, every bit of that ex that hit me across my face diminished, and the golf ball flew far and the speed was deep, I was running out of waisted years and so I put myself back in the moment, he taught me what to wear and what not to bring, and all I wanted to say was my daddy taught me how to cover my jewels and every 20 dollar bill that folded into my breast, when I was under 25 hit the ground and I was able to blossom, because daddy told me so, he taught me the rules, the fundamental things, pointed out the holes, and all I wanted to say was, my daddy taught me what to do, where to go, and what depth I can handle should I fall in, the golf ball rolled to the right and all I heard him say was “good job” and all I wanted to say was my daddy told me so, my daddy folded my hand under his and I knew the concepts of life, I understood what it felt like to be beneath a man with my cloths on, only a bare hand, his touch was so smooth, I never knew his hands felt this way, I was a little girl in my 30s that day‚Ķ

One thought on “12am

  1. This is great! The repetition of “my daddy taught me…” works very well here, helps to keep bringing us back to that main heartbeat of the poem. I think you do a good job of encompassing so much within the singular experience of learning to hit a golf ball. You move well between the larger world/life in general and the specific setting (on a golf course) of the poem.

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