House On the Hill

House on the Hill



I killed my Daddy when I turned 15.
In a house on a hill in eastern Tennessee.
He came staggering in drunk, cold and mean.
With the moon sinking slow in those high trees.


He came for me while I pretended to sleep.
In a house on a hill in eastern Tennessee.
Counting slow steps as the floorboards creaked,
I held my knife like it might save me.


He pushed on the door and let me hear him breathe.
Then he staggered inside, drunk, cold and mean.
He loosened his belt. His pants dropped to his knees.
Then he pulled down my thin, white sheet.


His belt buckle rattled as he climbed in with me.
With the moon sinking slow in those high trees.
I felt his weight settle on the bed springs.
Then I did with my knife what he meant to do to me.


I killed my Daddy when I turned 15.
I left him in my bed, cold and bleeding
Then I washed his blood off in the kitchen sink
and I buried the knife in that hill in Tennessee.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Tipton Poetry Journal