A Memory of Falling Off a Bicycle

Poetry

the spark of green was warning the first

as the bike careened downward and met dirt,

my knees crumpling and throat dry with thirst,

yet all he had to say were words aplenty curt.

*

my new pink helmet snagged my hair, so tight,

while I tried not to look too hurt by every word

because I didn’t want to go against his might

even though by then he just looked bored.

*

the nearby park hummed with so many a kid

as I felt a ruddy blush from the sun stain my skin,

and so I tried not to think of how the bike had slid

under his gaze ready to judge with his mouth so thin.

*

thinking I would always be my daddy’s girl no matter what,

I should have known better simply by how his words had cut.

Originally published at https://vocal.media.