how long can a man go without breathing?
In the tub, I am splashing cold water to his skin, I touch his
crumpled shoulders -and I bite my lips till blood scents the water.
a broken man does not cry, he bleeds. I recite.
But he is inconsolable with a cry from thin lips, a battered tongue.
his hand slips away from my mine.
as a child, I wanted to feel God in his

Study as I stared at the cross hung
in the middle of his room.
the curtains billowed every time he touched the keyboard.
so every stolen bread was bitter, sour and that was God’s warning.
a reminder not to use my offering for sweets or my stomach will suffer the wrath.
today is church, the voice from the tub
a man must go to church clean, ,must have his prayers, pure.
you taught me, Father.
It’s hard to say why I am scared.
his sinking eyes in the hollow, his withering skin or the clear sound of
water rapidly going down the drain?

I have loved wordlessly- carrying in me the dying body of goals.
a Martyr, moving my Father from chair to tub to bed. In silent sacrifice

attending to his sheets that carry stunning ugliness.

his vomit is the smell on my cheek and neck.

today he found strength to pull his regal portraits to pieces.

This Sunday morning, it seems only fair for two men to weep.

Leave a Reply to Scribbles Cancel reply

Add comment