When I was a boy and my fist
Would land into my father’s arm,
I’d cry out, and he’d say
Didn’t hurt me none.
He’s been dead six years now,
And my work is still to try
To beat myself up
And make the pain last.
Copyright © 2014 by Mark Yakich. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-a-Day on July 1, 2014.