There are thorns in the crevice of my left toes. 

I wonder what it must have been like,

To saw down branches caked with lichen, green and yellow wispy edges; 

His anger toward his father was taken out on pieces of bark. 

Sharp pains 

make it to the base of my neck, I have stepped further in. 

To my right, breeze lulls sweet 

delights into my ears; and to my left, 

Ripples of rain seek to wash away my 

perplexities. 

Did he feel these moments, all those years ago? 

When I think of liberation, I smell the breeze and hear the turns of the river,

 crying for help. 

When we have all laid down our swords, they will still be on the front lines. 

For when you are silent, 

with the language of the earth never reaching tired ears; 

And when you are at the mercy of my father’s rage and his mechanic saw, 

The only choice is to fight. 

They are dogs, cornered in the pantry. 

They bear their teeth in submission. 

I pick the thorn out of my foot, I see the droplets of red fall 

into the marshes. It seems like this

 is the way to make me notice, to hear the silent words. 

My father would tell me that forgiveness 

supersedes 

permission. The thorns tells me

 otherwise. They are not asking for a reply.