The Father

I am etched in silver
Curse-ed form and feature
Forced to carry the weight
Of your misdeeds
In my design

Your absence, your rosy warnings, a gesture of love
The only thing you knew to do
Forced me to gather the bits of light
In a cactus patch
Against the painted burning skies

There was so little left
Razor feathers, leather throats
That buckled at ever-fixed turn

Was it nature or nurture
That made our inkwells, our noses
Match

That made the baptizers
The parasites
Claim our irises mirror each others'

Both our minds, after all, swell and ebb with tides
In a world full of sand

Was it nature or nurture
That made the mad woman in all cowling grays
Giver of life, womb of wounds
(show up throw up)
Loosen the bonds that tied

But the seeds you sow
Are only tissue-deep

There is fundamental difference in our hands
Where I reach to protect, to nurture
You only reached to harm
In your nature

And where your pen is filled with fear
Mine is certain, comfortable in its duality
Where my eyes show light
In yours, there is a sheen of shadow

(he got you)

In spite of nature, of nurture
I killed the parasite

Alas, despite the efforts
Of black and white police reports
To claim my innocence
To taint my heart with bitter tastings

I am ever so grateful
That you and the mad woman
Didn’t allow my soul to be tarnished
By your touch

That I am still able to love
To live, spirited
In spite of your thorns