Robert Pope

Hitting

I do not know how many times my father hit

me with his hand or kicked my backside. Oh,

there is more than this to say about my father,

but this is the time to say he swung at me in

the backseat, a boy no more than eight, struck

glancing blows. I had laughed, it bothered him.

At thirteen, he sent an engraved, silver lighter

whizzing past my ear as I fled a growling anger,

imbedding in the solid wooden door, sticking

there instead of in my head. Fifteen, he struck

me with the back of his hand because I flinched

as he reached in his jacket, kicked the back of

my legs for infractions I could not comprehend.

He broke yardsticks on my back, swung his belt

at me after whipping it around his waist. Each

time he struck the impact reverberated through

the years. If the air is right, I feel the stinging on

my face or head, not all I have of Dad, but part.

Robert Pope has published a novel, Jack’s Universe, and a collection of stories, Private Acts. He has also published many stories and personal essays in journals, including Kenyon Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, and Fiction International.