When I was a kid, barely nine,
I had a dream for, mum, sis and me.
To kill my Dad, and survive doing it!
Was that really such a crime?
We had this ugly glass ashtray,
Like a thick set Star of David,
a thing of substance with sharp points.
I used sit on my bed thinking, and pray.
I had a carefully considered plan.
He made me feel so angry and afraid.
I would have to hit him very hard,
because I thought him like superman.
He would be sitting on the stairs,
Laughing, talking, and cursing on the phone.
I would descend the star in both hands.
Raise it high and bury it in his wavy hairs.
I crash it down deep in his skull.
He falls forward and blood oozes out,
onto the purple nylon carpet. Time
Slows, my heart pounds, there is a lull.
He lies dead, gone at last; but not!
My fear, my dread… the horror is,
that he is not, he cannot, will not die,
And so he rises and I have had my lot.
So as ever I squeeze past, avoid his eyes.
And fear he knows what’s in my mind.
The crystal is put back in place…again
I was only nine, and a little more of me dies.