My father made promises
and forgot most of them. "You'll get it
when we get home," was the one he always kept.
I learned to ask for it. I loved the tension
of anticipation. It was better than any bitter
Christmas, where the "if-you're-good" puppy
turned out to be a gray-plaid school dress,
a urinating baby doll.
I loved the way he called my name
as he waited in the straight-backed chair,
the hairbrush in his hand.
I loved the way he made me come
against my will and lie across his lap.
I loved the feel of his hard thighs,
the rising, heated scent of him,
his warm hand pressing down
on the small of my back. I loved
what the hairbrush delivered--
he had promised it,
he really gave it to me.
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