American Bittersweet
BY MIRIAM MAYER
“Abuse”
is too heavy a word.
When your therapist first uses it
you try it like hand-me-downs
one size too small
or the palest in a batch of berries.
It doesn’t sit right at the seams.
It tastes sour on your lips.
So you lean into the idea that maybe
your parents are toxic. American
Bittersweet doesn’t aim to maim,
only to grow,
but if you pluck its autumn fruit,
crush to a pulp, swallow the yellow,
it will fight all the way down. And
they are always fighting you.
You who dared to disobey.
You in your too-tight clothes.
You in your too-small town.