Plea
Vixen
My grandfather's fingernails claw my arm,
his skin like dying leaves
His whisper begs,
pleads for me to embrace his god
His plea is drenched in desperation,
an acute need for me to act as support beam
to his crumbling wall of faith
before he dies, confused, shaken, forsaken
in this hospital room
I sit still and silent,
setting my face firm against
his attempts at conversion
battering at me this last time
as if the past twenty years
of scathing letters and condemnations
have not been quite enough
I shut my eyes
until his painfully-thin figure fades
and I imagine him healthy and strong:
muscular arm lifting and
bringing heavily down
the harsh coils of a belt
Slap! the wide band
strikes pink skin
and the boy's stubborn, scrawny
body is knocked to the floor,
tears sprung then swallowed
The father's arm rages to strike belief into
the trembling boy, unknowing
that his son will never believe
as he does, nor will his granddaughter,
even after long years of preaching
or beating
Creaking, the door swings,
and my eyes reopen at the hospital,
looking up to my father, the boy,
looming large above us
He frowns at my grandfather's prayers,
lips stretching thin
as his vision encompasses
his teenaged daughter
and frail wrinkled father
Whose harsh blows melt into
a pleading for one more year
as he gazes with failing eyes
at the tight skin of my forearm
and tries to believe that I
am the vulnerable one
who needs to be
saved
