A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

You took me by the hand,

showed me the evidence:

it was not my fault.

relief

but then

a void 

If not my fault, then whose?

I see the logical conclusion

from the arrangement of clues.

I try to fathom it

but the pain

is more than I am certain I can bear. 

There must be an alternative.

I seize on one as it flies 

through the chaos of my mind:

my boy always breaks his favourite toys.

I want to see these cracks as proof of love

but all they spell is (mis)use

and I know this straw I’m clutching

is as fetid 

as telling a little girl on the playground

that he hit her because he likes her. 

If I was his favourite toy,

I’d still be in mint condition. 

This poem was written on April 3 in response to Kristina Mahr’s TTPD poetry challenge.