"Out of the ash,
I rise with my red hair,
And I eat men like air."
-Sylvia Plath

My father's office
housed indentured
servants of paper stacks,
all crawling towards
the ceiling to escape,
mildew man in a
metal bin can.

Old German phrases
lingered in the air
escaping my grip,
all your ich bins
and ein kleines,
the Nachtmusik tune
and the cuckoo song,
turns of the *****,
in replace of an
I love you.

I dreamt you were insufficient
so it'd be easier to forget you,
my want is my want,
but you're always there,
with your Luftwaffe stare.

Where were you when
the night turned blue?
you do not do what
the other folks do,  
with your jagged soft
and history besmeared,
secrets spewed out
car windows you  
dont have words to.

You've swallowed
your children whole,
with your gobbledygoo
and witches brew,
as we crouch down
behind ancestors
begging for answers
they won't reveal.

Don't matter to me!
I can spell out
complex words
with vague candles,  
blow them out and
start all over again
and again, it's true,
join the rat race,
blending in well
like your split pea soup.

I can move myself to
sit in my presence after all,  
I can make myself known
when you enter the room,
holler over revved engines
and your quivering pens,
erratic hair and swivel chairs.

Daddy oh daddy oh,
you didn't raise no fool,
for me and her and
the ones yet to be her,
we are not through, daddy oh
After it all, she rose up with her red hair
and gulped you down like easy air.