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Howl at the Moon

When she was 8,
You howled at the moon,
and caught the attention of the men in blue.
You steered across the line,
You argued, You spat
until the night sky faded into dawn,
and they deemed you worthy
of wandering home. 
But in those hours of darkness,
she sat with an empty space on the blanket
looking up at the stars as fireworks
burst around her and 
asked why you weren't there.

When she was 17,
You howled at the moon. 
It was late and you had learned,
So you hung your head out the window
while the rain stung against your skin.
You taunted a cop,
You laughed, you puked,
As she fearfully drove you home.
In tears, she declared that she 
could not leave you there alone.
You were her dad. 
She stayed. She watched.
She wanted to be there...for you.

When she was 19,
You bought her some beer.
It was late. There were friends. 
You felt like a kid again, partying with the crowd,
And you were a hit, the provider, the crazy one.
They rallied around as you slurred your words.
You laughed. They laughed. She laughed.
This was the way to have fun.
You explained that this was not 
her first rodeo.
She was going to do what she was going to do
and you were going to be along at her side
As she howled at the moon.

When she was 23,
she howled at the moon.
Her skirt was short. Her top was low.
She danced. She drank.
And so did you. 
You were guiding her, you said.
It was just good ol' fun.
Except it wasn't fun
when they pulled her out 
of the mangled steel
and covered her face and shook their heads,
And now you howl at the moon,
deeply, sorrowfully, howl at the moon.

 

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  1. Date: 3/25/2014 7:09:00 PM

    I know this scenario, but you told it so well dear Rachel, I just hope its an inspiration but not a reality. Thanks for sharing. Tiaua.
  1. Date: 3/25/2014 3:52:00 PM

    Rachel, this is a hauntingly sad poem. It is also a sad commentary on life, on howling at the moon, on the consequences of seemingly innocent fun.

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