Inherited Pain
“A knife in the back. Sharp, Slowly twisting. Pain.”
That’s what my dad told me, When I sat on his knee, When he described his pain.
I looked at him. He looked normal. (this was his normal,)
“Why don’t you rest? Until the pain goes away?”
He looked at me. “If I rested, Until the pain was gone, Nothing would get done.”
Then he set me down, Stood up, And walked off, Not a hint of pain in his stride.
That conversation is what I think of, With dishes in my hands, And a whimper in my throat. Because if I rested Until the pain was gone, Then nothing would get done












