In Pink by Shahn Dickson

In my pink room, in my pink bed, in my pink skin, he came
to teach me how to be his little girl. Awake, tired,
I hid under covers, gasping for breath, laughter
coming from my brother next door. Daddy taught
me dread and how to stay still. I looked out my
window and watched the trees, tall and calm
and prayed to turn into a boy. I knew the calm

in my mother's face: relief that Daddy came
to me. Mommy didn't tell: she swabbed my
wounds with Vaseline so I wouldn't itch at school. Tired,
disappointed, Mommy wanted so much more. She taught
me not to rock the boat; that being laughed
at is better than being ignored. She laughed

when I ran to her, covered in piss; she was calm
when I bled through my dress or threw up, muscles taut
with the pain that followed Daddy coming
to my room. Mommy tells me that when he got tired
he wanted his favorite, because when my

mother got too cold they adopted my
brother and me. She taught me laughter
means love, love means a tired
father preying on his little girl, love means his calm
dead eyes on my frightened skin; he comes
to me and only me. Every night Mommy taught

me love. Every morning Mommy taught
me lies. I burn from the salt of my
tears; I burn from the salt of his come.
I burn from my brother's laughter
in our back yard. I burn from the calm
of teachers who didn't ask why I was tired.

Blood turns to clot: brown as the dirt under a child's tire
swing. Now I dream a childhood I was taught
to forget. My stone turns to river. I rush through the calm,
muddying my self. I am dirty again with my
own tears, soaked with my mother's laughter
rank with the fear that my father will still come.

He will never get tired. He will never again be my
father. My muscles stay taut, ready to fight laughter
or that calm I always felt right before he came.