Conversations With My Father

Neither of us is attentive

I stopped listening when I was younger

When he was younger too

Back then he spoke in anger

And listened to the bottle

I shrank from his words

Learned to distrust them

I could say nothing that interested him

He is older now, but communication hasn’t improved

He listens to the book now

Taking notice of little else

He talks in feigned meekness

Forgetting willfully the past barbarity

My trust hasn’t recovered as fully as my bones

His softer up-to-date language

Does not penetrate my skin

We talk,  but only superficially

We speak, but it is formulaic

And mundane

We exchange words,

But neither of us really says anything

In a way

The empty bland chatter hurts worse 

Than the belts and backhands

In another way

It hurts far worse.