✷
Inheritance
It seems that I am my father’s daughter: ugly
temper claws out of my gut
into the throat. I don’t recognize the blade
but these hands are mine—
with razor-sharp words, I carve
into my lover.
My father’s anger deflated
as he got older. Flammable
like gasoline,
his fuel tank leaked
& I inhaled the fumes—mouth
genetically welded
to the exhaust pipe.
He never taught me to drive
but he left the keys in the ignition
& racked up the mileage.
My burden: my birthright. I torch
my short fuse.
Drunk in a bar & immortal
I flick my lighter.
I want something to bite. I fight
a man. When I’m on my knees
in the dust, all I can think: I wish
he’d drawn blood.
I never learned how to punch.
I’m useless in this narrow
body, skin taut
around beer glass bones.
What good is rage
when no one hits me hard enough
to bruise? What good is this flame
if I can’t hold my life
like a fist?
not where you’ve been, where are you going
there is something to be said for easy mornings
& sun-ripe tomatoes
that burst acidic on your tongue I’m no good
with imagery;
but picture this:
you are on the train
& someone is waiting for you
at the next station
you have enough change
for homemade iced tea on the pier
& someone wants to hold your hand
they tuck it into their pocket
like it matters
you laugh
with your whole body
& it doesn’t hurt like it used to
your scars have gone white in the sun
sometimes you forget they exist
but they prove you’re alive
they whisper from split mouths
of nights that lasted decades
when you waged infinite
invisible wars
inside your brain keloid
reminders that you clawed
your way through marrow
& sinew to find
what had been lost
years before on the shore
of adolescence:
when you wanted
more—the self
you buried premature
in shallow tomb
you trace the seams
with your fingers permanent
records of truth: that your future
is yours alone—you made it yourself
(spitting blood from your mouth)
knuckles white
it was messy it was raw
you molded it out of flesh & bone
(out of despair) out of nothing
you have earned the right
to cup it in your hands
to feel its heart beat
(it is hungry it is feral)
it will not be ignored (it will bite)
it demands everything
you have to give:
so when your life calls to you (& it will call)
meet it halfway—
it will not wait
✷──────────✷──────────✷
Dara Goodale (they/she) is a Romanian-American poet and Astrophysics university student living in Lausanne, Switzerland. Dara writes about mental health, grief, change, and identity, and their poetry is greatly influenced by their experience as an openly non-binary lesbian. Their work is often physical, exploring the body and its connection to self through the lens of gender identity, and the impact of trauma. In their free time, Dara goes quad rollerskating and works as a bartender.
