my father’s a drink first fist first kind of guy
he’s consistent in that way
he barely talks
when he does I shrink away
his anger is a low burning coal mine
his dense geological pressure
terrorizing people he brands
with the fear of his love
i convince myself
maybe he’s through this time
i’ve seen his full rage
so often
each morning he sees me again
the weak boy
effete, artistic, tearful
the easy target
that won’t fight back
(sorry, this is not the beginning. roll backwards. reset.)
i grew up a weed
in a stone garden
hiding in a dry crack
our pesticide flavoured family
invisible behind spiny leafless vines,
creaking fences
(why is this interesting. why should you be concerned. i’m not sure i am.)
how many times
the police put my father
in tight vine chokeholds
his wrists in thorny metal
father without breath
smiling without worry
away in a night
a day
a few days
he comes back
shrinking like an apologetic puppet
apoplectic about his repetitious sins
lying so humbly
mom cries out forgiveness
because she has no choice
they drink like lovers
thrash like legless cows
(i need to apologize. these aren’t events I should be writing about. secrets should be kept.)
15 now
i wear my father’s brand
visible and invisible
my medical records
ignorant of truth
the centre of how we know each other
bruises stitches x-rays
dislocated shoulders broken ribs
all ad-hockey injuries
we say if someone asks
no one bothers
(this secret i should never tell. it’s always dangerous. i shouldn’t trust you)
my father has a massive stroke
not suddenly as people say
predictably but not soon enough
not massive enough
one breath lost — chance of survival
two lost breathes — brain dead
three lost breathes — simply dead
(i have better sense than this. i cannot hope for these things)
he lingers like a cold hallway shadow
he’s a bag of bones
a major intersection of iv drips
tubes, machinery and needles
incoming nurses and doctors
outgoing family traffic cops
i wonder why i don’t simply leave now
what do i need to know
is he stirred by my scars he only knows about
is my face in his witches roiling cauldron
i wonder what it would be like
to garrote him like watery cheese or
choke him with my fingers
i get lost in these hypnotic thoughts
and others like them
too often
(this isn’t what I think now. it’s not right. i take the words back, swallow my guilt. i’m used to that kind of thing.)
at the hospital
i hear the corridor voices
talk about what best to do
my dad won’t improve
a voice says he deserves dignity
no matter his life
i spit and gag, taste bile in my throat
i see myself in virtual reality
pulling his life out of an electrical outlet
beep beep beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
he goes flat line
let’s go home
let’s be fuckin’ pragmatic
(i don’t regret this yet. i know what you’re thinking. that history indicates that inevitably i will live with guilt . . . . . for a long time)
i hear someone cry
like a pigeon
i can’t understand why
the dr. assures us
he will feel no pain
i’m ready to murder
to hear it will be excruciating
i’m a suicidal zealot
to bring on searing pain
i’m a serial killer for
his death and resuscitation each day
until we forget how to count days
(i’ve said so many things i could never say to his face. i’m a coward. like he always said)
i know what he taught me
the small comfort of mortality
the long life of guilt
i know i learned like a baby
the relief of standing up
it’s a perfect circle
a father and son
in these cruel revolving consequences
from a crying start
to a flat-lined end
(sorry you read this. it’s all wrong. roll the words back. restart. don’t press repeat)