When sorry seems to be the hardest word

Draped across a sheepskin
Bea lies in front of her crackling heat and reveals
Only the tiniest fragment of her stolen youth and enquires
In response to the question asked:
“So do you hate them for it?”

“Only for the touches on my skin
That lingered with pleasure, and a kindness that steals
Your chance for despising all the rest” He says and expires
Back into the leather sofa tasked with
Trying to let them off for it.

“but for what?” she asks again
Searching out the point. “I saw my grandmothers heels shot
From horseback like that wounded knee….so?” He tires
Knowing he has exposed at last
His own prerequisite.

Anyhow the crumpled photo slips within
Repossessed letters, then not received, now readied for the fire. It feels
Like some escape with scrawling on the boarding house spires
And across the smiling face in ghastly
White: ‘I forgive you’ unmerited and unfit.