Rachel ... and the crash downstairs
Bad shot little girl.
Already afraid she looked at me,
the broken ornament looked up at me
and screamed out for revenge.
I gave it swift revenge.
The smack on soft brown flesh sang out
the child cried,
the Yo-yo disappeared into the bin,
a lack of aim her only sin.
The broken ornament still looked at me,
the child now shattered too,
looked up at me through eyes forever changed,
too late for cream or glue.
Upon her thigh the wealds of guilty fingers
marked out my retribution.
And clutching her to me
I stroked her hair and cried,
as all too late I finally understood
between the expensive and the irreplaceable.
Read the story behind this poem
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