I remember I was angry at you
and you were small, you could not
do anything to make me angry at you.

I dug my teeth into your arm
your face flushed red with pain
and I watched you cry.

A year later, I remember:
walking on a beach with you
holding your hand as water licked our toes.

There was a time when
I hit you with a baseball bat, not on purpose
I swung it, and you stood there; I cried more than you.

But then we were away from:
baseball bats, anger, and people who ask:
how old are you?

We were on a beach in a country where
there are stray cats, a grandma, and
sand that feels like flour.