Her father left her there
Poetry by Kelsey Erin Shipman, Winter 2014
*
The little girl
couldn’t breathe
and desperately wanted
someone to see when
the emperor of the supermen
climbed into her lap.
A fierce, angry cat
with no patience for
human things.
But she had watched
him with purpose,
and waited quietly.
Folded herself into a bird’s
nest and charmed him
with her song.
And so she learned
stillness and the gift
of patient legs.
And how to ride his spine with her
fingertips.
A secret pleasure
between two victims
of divorce.
She beaded bracelets
with her anger. He unleashed
his with claws.
Tore into furniture—
open gashes of white.
She stayed up late at night
studying the bathroom wall.
Her father left her there,
alone in her underwear.
Silly girl with no shoes.
She wanted to know
if there was room for two
at the hotel he left her for.
*
Kelsey Erin Shipman is a poet, performer, and educator. She teaches poetry to senior citizens at the public library, undergraduates at Texas State University, and inmates at the Travis County Jail. Her poems have recently been published in the Austin Chronicle, African American Review and Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review. A native Texas, she loves big dogs and breakfast tacos. Read more of her work at kelseyshipman.com.