Safety
My dad always cut
my grapes into quarters.
He was afraid
I would choke.
I wish I could tell
him that the sweet
is sweet, that grapes
are good to eat.
Dad, I have tasted and
seen and swallowed
the coldest, crispest
grapes, nothing bad
will come from them
just because they’re from
her hand. Don’t worry, please.
You ask if I still
pray, if I go to church.
I drank communion
only yesterday,
red wine staining her
lips and mine.
Tell me again how
love is worship.
Dad, I listened
the first time.
Rae Norman writes every now and then. You can find her poetry in Wrongdoing Magazine, Perhappened, Writers Resist, the lickety-split, Falling Star Magazine, and Isacoustic, and find her on twitter at @raeswriting.
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