The father sinned
I.
The cusp of my youth lay in your hands,
cusp like pliable clay with hope seeping into its pores.
I begged you with words that I could not yet form
With names that I could not yet pronounce;
I begged you to keep my hope alive
to mold it into the folds of my youth
to give me a reason, just one reason to believe.
II.
You had learned under a hard task master
one without heart and plenty of head
he taught you pain and you knew no other way
no other way to mold the fragile hope
that lay warmly in your massive hands
You molded me with names that made me flinch
With strokes that felt like grown trees falling on tender plants
With breath that aged me with its putridity.
You were proud of your broken master piece
A mish-mash of ill-fitting parts
Strewn together from the burning pot of your pain.
III.
I put myself back together again
After I broke myself open and apart
I yanked out the words that made my heart beat with fear
I cleaned out the memories of you that streamed through my blood
I transfused myself with new blood, new names, new words
And they all put me back together again
A mish-mash of scars that bore meaning
An imperfect creation in a moment of perfect clarity.
