For Monica

Is it wrong that I hate you
and your rank morning-breath,
that taught me to seek solace by the window
on raw, morning drives to school?
With forehead pressed, breath
making a mist, I’d clench, knotting
teeth and grinding hands until stiff;
(since it was too early for Enya,
and passive-aggressiveness.)

Because I used to sit on Dad’s lap
and hold on tight in the blue Mustang (a ’65)
while winding down the first freeway
in California, feeling warm and high. And
I was his girl. No need to park in the street
or sit in the back seat while you complain
that he pays too much attention to me.
(I’m not the only one who needs self-esteem.)

And where will you sit, when it’s my turn?
On the side of my groom? No. I’ll make you shake
hands and smile for a change or
just don’t come and let my dad, alone.
What a spectacle you’ve made:
whisking away our brother from the hands of my
“deranged mother;” bringing up the will
and your better life in Brazil; and recall those
family trips, kissing our cheeks with tight lips
before the car pulled out and
we waved from a driveway.

So, I resolve to go and recall
good times through old photos.
Make a point. (Did I really just
delete my dad from Facebook?)
Life is full of consolidations; selling
Mustangs and making a choice between
calling on holidays or calling at all.
It’s been dampened and so I pound my fist
on drywall as you build a new home and buy
silly things to flair your gills and make
life seem superior. And I hope it’s
better for you, as it will be for me,
and someday I’ll bring over my child
and pretend to be okay that he isn’t
in a frame over your mantle.