a partial erasure of King Lear
If my father is my arbiter, then it’s just as well; I am bound
to follow him in my duty as his daughter. I am no woman, though,
in his image I was made. What does that make me? My dimensions
are as fit as anyone’s. I am healthy. I am whole. I try to love
my father as he deserves to be loved: unconditionally. I fail
as any child would. There are secrets I keep from him, coins
in a dead man’s pocket for the ferryman. He is not a monster.
His age predates him— change bewilders him. Even if I told him I was not
a woman, he would call me one and think he spoke truthfully. The excellent
forgery of my appearance is perhaps my greatest lie. Hips, breasts,
and thighs. There is no bridging the gap, so I make it wider. I say nothing,
choose not to come between my father and the girl he once knew. I have
a father, but I don’t know how to talk to him. He has a child,
he just doesn’t know what to do with it.
