No One was Hurt, 2nd Draft

Photo by Allec Gomes on Unsplash

I chose to rework this one because I can’t quite decide if I want to stick it in a drawer and forget about it, if I want to cut it apart and transplant the pieces into other poems, or if I want to spend time turning it into something that feels like it’s finished. (The first draft is below the revision, so you can get a look at the changes, if you want.)

The desk and chair from the flea market —

my own first space to sit and write stories like you used to do.

(I’m sure you talked the guy down a little bit with your blue-eyed charm.)

Uncle Bob needed a chair to paint the ceiling—

white to match the cleaned up walls.

(He helped Mom clean the whole kitchen walls

while you were away for the weekend.)

Mom sat on the floor with cleaner and a rag,

lovingly cleaning the paint from the chair

before she gave it back to me.

You came home after he was long gone.

And you exploded.

Stomping to shake the cups in the new glass-front cabinet.

Speaking to stop all motion —

Mom with the rag raised over the last spot of paint,

me pressed into the hallway wall,

my brother somewhere out of sight behind a door.

You threw out your rage at us and left.

(You never asked me what I thought.

The chair was mine, after all.

I was happy for Uncle Bob to use it

because he sang me silly songs while he painted.)

Later you came back without your rage.

You left it in the tire tracks of a long drive,

in my mother’s tensing back,

in my still-forming heart

in the way I faced the world for years to come.

First draft:

You bought the desk and the chair for me at the flea market.

(I’m sure you talked the guy down a little bit,

you were good at that with your blue-eyed charm.)

My uncle needed a chair to paint the ceiling—

white to match the cleaned up walls.

You came home after he was done,

after he was long gone,

when my mother sat on the floor with cleaner and a rag,

lovingly cleaning the paint from the chair

before she gave it back to me.

And you exploded.

Stomping hard enough to shake the cups in the new glass-front cabinet.

Speaking hard enough to stop all motion —

my mother with the rag raised over the last spot of paint,

me pressed into the hallway wall,

my brother somewhere out of sight behind a door.

You threw out your rage at us and left.

(You never asked me what I thought.

The chair was mine, after all.

I was happy for my uncle to use it

because he sang me silly songs while he painted.)

Sometime later you came back without your rage.

You left it in the tire tracks of a long drive,

in my mother’s tensing back,

in my still-forming heart

in the way I faced the world for years to come.