No man is perfect, after all
and words are just words
and not fists; fists are blue moons
and she says she had them coming

for talking back, for contra
dicting his view of the world
for asking stupid questions
about the cigarettes in the car 

that weren't their brand.
No man is perfect, after all,
and she knew the sting
of growing up fatherless

in a world where if you haven't
a pa or a beau you're unclaimed
property. A tragic commons.
Her first marriage failed;

a shame she couldn't bear again
and after 11 years of her second's
silences and rages and midnight drives
she got pregnant after giving up

and no man is perfect, after all,
but a baby needs two parents
it was just common knowledge
and a flawed pa is better than

none. So their little girl grew
watching screaming fights
through a rusty screen door
as she stood outside in the dark

feeling helpless helpless lost.
Their conflict was a monstrous baby
who'd never ever leave their nest, 
a needy suckling devouring energy

and time. Her parents moved
to a dusty place, moved
to quiet separate bedrooms
her mother didn't ask

and the daughter learned
to never ask, never question,
let the cancerous silence reign 
accept deliberate acts as accidents.

So when the first boy who broke her
from those silences raised his fist
and spoke of sweet passion, she thought
well. No man is perfect after all.