Daddy has a collection of broken hearts in glass jars that he can’t seem to keep clean,

maintained through years of one-sided solitude and self-sabotage.

The leather seats of his Lexus are left warm, warn, and cracking

from sweat and too much Chanel #1.

The record player turns to unveil the wise words of Celine Dion and I am 6 years old, waiting in    

the wanton rain for daddy to get home from work,

dreaming of the gravel crunch from tires and turntables,

all that comes are tears.

It’s 1983 and torment is the game I played when wanna-be-mothers took supper in our dining room and drank all of mom’s wine.

These revolving-door-women stained his soul like the cabernet, and I, the stemless goblet,  shattered in his touch.

The rebellion began off-handed, food was the first enemy, when that didn’t work, it was myself.

The reflection of his wrong-doings: brought to life with a ropy gas-station-condom and years of  tough love passed down from his father, and his father before him.

I don’t wear my big, fuzzy socks anymore because we don’t dance across the kitchen tiles like we used to.

Those floors are reserved for “adult activities” as is most of the house we used to call a home, and so I am condemned to my self-sequestration.

Now I clean daddy’s collection of broken hearts in glass jars because I know that mine will be in there soon too, and I never want to be as dirty as daddy.