I raise small questions: Can time arc backwards? Does love live on?
In some tiny antechamber of my soul it will always be not-quite-dawn.
I did not know these things then:
that my hands on your flesh were his hands instead,
that my tender words of succor were his seduction as well.
Oh, that a father's love could beget a daughter's hell.
Three of us, that night, lying in the bed
two of us dying, the other never-quite-dead.
©1998 Peter Basta Brightbill
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