It’s 3:00 AM, another sleepless night.
I twist to a sitting position on the side
of the bed, leave a tangle of bedsheets
and blankets behind me.
Shuffling through a dark hallway
to my study, I flop onto a cushioned chair,
face my walnut, spinet desk on which
an open journal lies. A shaft of moonlight
shines through the window, making
lamplight unnecessary. It’s as if I’ve found
a secret pocket of time that belongs
only to me.
I pick up a pen. The ray of light illuminates
the journal page, and I start to write about
my dad’s abuse of me during childhood.
His belt raised welts on the back of my legs.
He mostly ignored me, shoved money into
my hand to rid him of my presence. He wasn’t
a man to love. I tried and failed.
I stop writing, look up at the moon, think
I’ve written̈ too often about him, but
I can’t seem to obliterate the memory of
how he wrecked my young life, no matter
how much I write. I’m haunted every day
by weight of my early years, tormented
by lack of love he withheld from me.
I close the journal. Enough, I think. Enough.
I turn again to face the source of light.
I can love the healing moon without hesitation.
It’s too far away from me to hurt.
R. Nikolas Macioci earned a PhD from The Ohio State University. Nik is the author of twenty-three books. He was twice nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize, and twice for a Best of the Net award. His poems have appeared in numerous magazines.
