Alice liked the soft
voice of her mother,
the telling of stories
as she fell into sleep.

She liked it when her
mother hugged her
tight and kissed her
goodnight. Her father

seldom came to story
tell or hug or kiss or
such; seemed it was
too much. His voice

was deep and harsh
as winds, his eyes
dark and shark like,
peering without those

feelings of love or
want or admittance
into his realm of deep
concern, cared neither

if she drowned nor
burned  nor if in her
dark hours she counted
unhappiness on her

fingers and toes; he
was her father, but
one of those. She liked
to hug and kiss her

doll, poor substitute
for a father's love,
it sitting there in hers
arms unblinking and

smile-less as her father
did; feelings not there
or if so, well hid. Alice
kissed her mother's brow,

her arms, her hands,
her fingers, too, what
was a deep sad fatherless
or seemingly so, girl to do

to bridge the space or gap,
but sleep in her mother's lap