after the night, his fractured voice in grey
whispers crawls along her memory, cold
and misty like october morning. she
shudders in the crisp breeze—forty-nine this
morning, cold front having passed over some
time in the night—sunny but breezy, jacket
no slicker. she hears his voice in the tattered
wind, in its choppy gusts feels his old angers
later, after the visitation, she
sits with friends over coffee drinks and speaks
of her father, the bright days of her youth
when he had been bigger than life. never
the truth of his despotism, his heavy
hands roaming her flesh . . . his scotch stinking breath.
David M Pitchford
20 Oct 2011
paint it iambic 
every little girl needs a dad, but not like this.. this is so disturbingly good.. 🙂
true. this is sort of a tribute to October as the designated month for awareness of domestic violence. nobody wants to talk about that second stanza, but it needs to be talked about so that folks can heal and other such crimes be prevented. THANKS for reading and dropping a comment, and for the compliment.
D
Nicely done! The poem almost didn’t need the second stanza.