Last Present

For my seventh birthday
before he stopped celebrating
anything but Jewish holidays,
my father sent a gold bracelet
speckled with my birthstone.

I was more comfortable in T-shirts
and baseball mitt. I loved to wrestle,
shock with vulgar words.
Such a mouth.

The delicate bangle
looked tiny in the white box
meant for girls in frilly dresses
with fathers who scoop them up.

How could it fit on this wrist
cocked for battle?
I stared down at the red stones
floating in the gold river.
Whose hand is this?
Whose father?

---

Pamela Hill Epps’ work has most recently appeared in the anthology 101 Jewish Poems For The Third Millennium (Ashland Poetry Press) as well as in other literary publications such as Heartwood Literary Magazine, The Closed Eye Open, and Poetry Breakfast. She has published A Last Glance, a chapbook with YellowJacket Press. She is a psychologist, poet, and jazz musician living in Tampa, Fl. She spends a great deal of time looking out at the river.