The Wall

Its blank face was always there, right in front
of my mother and me. No matter what we wore,
what words we spoke as one came home
and the other left. Neither of us had courage
enough to smear the emptiness with graffiti
or even paint a black-eyed daisy. We listened
to my father who commanded a respect
he earned and took for granted. Even our calls
on the phone bunked up against this slate,
the distant memory of her mother haunted
both of us with her statement she would return
after she died to devil with us. The only thing
I remember handing back over the wall
after I left home was my perfect daughter,
the girl who never seemed to see
any impediment at all.