Today I took pleasure in distance,
seated alone in the willow forest,

eating rice with honey and milk,
sleeping with the lights off.

I didn't dream about toads lurking
behind doors, or dead fish

in plastic bags. I didn't hide toys
in the closet, or matches, or candles.

It's not that I don't love you. Daddy.
It's that you created the distance

with your regimented humiliation.
I approached you as a hummingbird

only to feel winter’s frost, listen
to the panther's stealthy stalk,

stare at the dog's rabid bite.
A cardinal sang magical melodies,

kept me alive. I cured my injuries
anyway I could. The ones I couldn't cure

I gnawed, burned, spat,
covered with garlic and mud.

Yet the best herbarium I had was time
and distance—the most spectacular
of all my acts of wizardry.