My father, you put the rust on a perfectly good nail. You destroy with rages, you make up with flair. Your honeymoon is almost as intense as your railing, at least that's what I heard the last time from the last wife you had-the one in another town, years ago. That was before the other, and the other, and before her my mother. You wrecked it all.

And like those victims-my mother and the others-I, too, awaited your next rage. I watched behind my back, said prayers to keep you calm. And, like them all now, I wait, for you are at a resting place, jail. I knew-yes, beyond a shadow of a doubt-that it would happen again. It was just a matter of time. You knew that, too. How long would it take? Did you wonder?

When you came home, we never knew how you would walk through that door. Sometimes, you were a monster, a demon; sometimes a knight in shining armor. We children waited in our room. When, how badly, how long. Strange, but that's mostly what kids think about. How long will it last this time, before we can go about our business of pretending things are "fine," like nothing ever happened? Because that's the beauty of it-you just never know.

As I stood there in the Green Room with the other presenters, waiting to read my poetry in the university contest, I was filled with hesitation. It wasn't performance anxiety. It was more that I don't know how to be in a room full of people. I told myself, "Don't' start with horror stories. Keep it formal, but casual. Like Dockers." I tried to act like I was at one of the parties I've seen on TV, except we're drinking Aquafina and waiting for the show to start.

There is never any small talk for people like me. I paced, smiled at no one in particular, told one of the presenters that my daughter liked her poem from Round One. "Oh, thanks," she said. OK, that's all the small talk up my sleeve. I wanted to bolt.

Instead, I stood there wondering what you felt like, in jail. I can't picture you there, though you have been there before, briefly. You were always tall, well-spoken, and handsome. You could talk your way out of a paper bag. I know about your episodes and their damage to life, limb and property. I know you. I am wearing slacks and a beautiful gold brooch that is a tree with crystals and pearls, but I suppose you are in an orange, blue, or yellow jumpsuit, surrounded by steel bars. You're probably waiting for a court hearing, someone to bail you out, come and put their arm around you and tell you it's going to be alright. There, there, now.

I called her-your wife. I don't blame her. I wondered if she had moved back to Florida. She hasn't. She didn't quit you yet. She's still bargaining.

I heard you met her Online and married her in another state and brought her back here. Maybe there are too many triggers for your anger here. But then, it doesn't matter where you go. Wherever you go, there you are.

Like you, my father, I have all these fears and anger-leftover anger, I call it. But I have rules about it-no touching anyone in anger, keep it under a half-hour. If I want, I can write a book about how angry I am. I can get divorced in my head, take a mental vacation to some other state or country, get out of the house, be among people without being with them. I can see a professional. It's so much easier than jail time. I wonder if you've gotten help for yourself. My brain is too busy. I'm distracted by nothing external. My conversation stops, like the first one. I look around, feeling a bit lost.

When people ask if I am close to my parents I need an operational definition for "close." I saw 30 homes and 5 states before I was 13. I attended nine grade schools. My mother was always there, and there was some comfort in that. But she was needy, too.

The wait is killing me. I'm second in line to share my poetry. I'm listening to the emcee make banter, get us to sing a Welcome Song from Ghana. In case I forgot to tell you, this poetry reading is for Civil Rights Day. I'm socially active. I think with a higher intellect. I'm on a higher plane of functioning. As far as Maslow's Hierarchy goes, I'm way beyond my basic needs level. I have food, clothing, a good, gentle, and kind husband of eight years (who you've never met), beautiful children (ditto), a dog, a mortgage, two car payments, and new appliances. I'm the first in our family have a bachelor's degree. Are you proud?

Another speaker moves up to the mike. Here we go again. The words I hear are just jumbles in my head.

The first presenter is introduced and walks onstage. A relief. I'm next. It will be over soon. The wait is over. Like the wait for you to finally beat her bad enough for her to press charges.

In a way, they are all my mother. And for a moment, I miss my mother more. She was imperfect, too needy to parent, too afraid to reach out. I say a silent vow to call her after the contest and tell her how it went.

It's my turn. I hear my name called, and it sounds tunnel-like, hollow. I feel my body lift up, and I think, "Again I rise." I feel those words of encouragement: "Again I rise." Maya Angelou-a great source of inspiration to me.

And I'm standing at the podium, saying a calm hello to everyone, gazing around the room, locking eyes at my seat neighbor and her daughter, sucking the strength right out of her, and I feel very relaxed. I look out and see an English teacher I've had twice. Fabulous. This morning, I spoke to your mother so far away, and I told her that I will be reading my poetry today. I only recently reconnected with her after 30 years. She told me to remember that everyone there is expecting to enjoy themselves, no one ever expects anything but to have a good time. I couldn't agree more.

When my words are heavy in the air like a loaf of gingerbread, sweet and spicy, I finish. Again, I look around the room and thank my audience. I feel a tremendous amount of humility here, to be onstage, to be presenting for a panel of university professors. I feel this yearning, too. I want you out there in the audience. It happens to me every time I perform. I have the most wonderful feeling and then this sudden pang in my stomach that travels up my chest and to my arms and my head and my eyes and almost cry, almost, that you are never there. Until I think of the women you've hurt. Then I'm glad. I would be too afraid to perform.

I wonder what it would take to stop you from hurting someone else. I pray, swiftly, while I walk up to the podium. I throw you out of my mind and breathe in the sweetness of my own words in the air. And I speak.