The Slow Thaw

I saw a man in the window glass

with a forehead lined and deep.

It took me a second to realize

he was the secret I couldn't keep.

My father’s hands are on my arms,

the knuckles are swollen and wide.

The skin is a map of a thousand miles

with nowhere left to hide.

There’s a purple bruise on my heavy wrist,

a spider-web thin and light.

I don't remember the corner I hit

in the middle of the night.