“Papa, why do you look so stern?” “Hannah—”
“I just want this to turn—”
“We can’t have this conversation this much.”
My father pulls away at my gentle touch.
At this, salty pools in my eyes begin to leak,
I suddenly feel shy and meek.
I turn my back and run outside.
I run for somewhere else to hide.
I run through my secret hedge tunnel,
run so fast I almost stumble.
Coming to the wood shed-house,
I crawl to the corner like a tiny field mouse.
I hug my knees, let the rivers run down my cheek,
there’s a cut on my knee,
I don’t care, I don’t speak.
But my mind is racing:
Why, why why is he so sad?
What is so bad?
Is all this because of me?
Or does everyone feel like a chopped down tree?
