the fisherman’s daughter (iii)

my father was a fisherman, and you know
what that means. no, i do not mean fish
for a meal three times a day all week round,
only that he was never there. and when he was,
he hardly sobered up. i was ten when i first
sneaked into a tavern to bring him home.
that night, i was awakened by his screams,
the crash of chairs hitting the walls,
and my mother’s crying. so it is puzzling
that seeing you on the beach that afternoon
made me remember this very memory.
is this why i did not dare ask you
for your name?

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