my father knows a midget. it’s not my fault. the two of them share a cigarette outside of a house they’ve never been inside. it’s winter. I scroll across Ohio on a sled with makeshift sail. I associate sorrow with the very short. I associate my father with sentences that end abruptly. I wear the mark he meant to leave on the world. I understand. it is forgivable. there are harder things to get in the way of. a mirror, perhaps. a hand on a bible. my own hand, which tells mother I’m adopted.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 3:57 PM UTC
my father knows a midget. it’s not my fault. the two of them share a cigarette outside of a house they’ve never been inside. it’s winter. I scroll across Ohio on a sled with makeshift sail. I associate sorrow with the very short. I associate my father with sentences that end abruptly. I wear the mark he meant to leave on the world. I understand. it is forgivable. there are harder things to get in the way of. a mirror, perhaps. a hand on a bible. my own hand, which tells mother I’m adopted.
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