but I swear, I know
love’s brutal blade. Brown flesh
turn yellow when it rot. I nurture
wrath like a mother. Keep it calm.
Baby’s teething. I want him
dead like history. I heard
long time ago, ancestors made drums
with their master’s skinned ribcages.
The hollow would echo like an endless
mouth. I can’t help but think of this. I
could make music of his dying, could
pass the instrument to my children. The beat
of kill. Revenge is a fine religion. Good
god, his faithful fist. I’m a wicked son. I got
my mother’s stomach. Acid. He must’ve
said I’ll never do it again. I swear.
Won’t even think about it. My mother doesn’t
talk about him. Silence. A simple
forgiveness. She screamed loudest
when I told her I was looking for him.
Said my eyes were familiar. But I’m young. A better body
of rage. Mother tries
to plant flowers now. She says just give it time.
Patience. That’s one way to pray. I have another.
I know he knows I’m coming. I’m his son.
The day I was born, he fled. I chased.
We both running.