Conkers

 

My dad used to make me play

in the yard in front of the shed.

He pushed huge holes through

with a clumsy tool that broke

some of the conkers in half.

For years I thought that tool’s

primary purpose was to hole

conkers, it’s secondary purpose,

to screw screws into walls.

 

He used to raise my abject arm,

“Higher,” I’d tense as he aimed

and brought his conker down

with a force that tightened

the football boot lace that wound

and wound around my young fingers.

 

He wouldn’t allow me to cry,

or shake the pain from my hand.

He’d smash one, thread another

and he had bread bags full of them.