When You’ve Become Your Father, That’s When You Embrace Euthanasia
I mean that only out of love.
It’s the kind of love that involves plastic
forks, paper plates left over
from the Reagan Administration.
I don’t even remember him.
Maybe I really do mean it
like a man flailing out of a room
means to distract you from the broken
chair legs and aged pineapple. Maybe it’s more
related to failing, a Napoleon collapse.
We’re too tall for that.
I don’t actually mean any of it
subjectively. It’s all about objective
transgressions: I took back the ring, took back the rent check,
wrote on each bedroom wall, watched her cry
about running over the dog or her purse. It was an ending
I don’t remember. Perhaps I’m looking to hold her
accountable: the scratches, the stitches, the car
left rotting with wasted fuck sessions.
But this is about love.
Father, I’ve spent too much time dying
because of thistle and ragweed. I’ve thorned
my way into love with tender zealotry.
But there was never anything for me
except for too-small galoshes and an excuse
to destroy puddles, front lawns.
When I disappeared into mud, father,
I know you caught the holy spirit
and left it on the front step.