Father Only Played With Fire

Father, why don’t you play

with toys?

I asked Mom.

He taught me

to use roaches as floss picks

without a word.

Father,

why do you work so much?

Wouldn’t you rather

stay home

and help me take the training wheels

off my bicycle?

I asked Grandma.

She lied,

and said father was never too far.

But I have holes

the shape of arrowheads

in all my shirts.

I think

Mom had too much overtime this week,

she doesn’t think I know

what wine smells like yet.

It smells like the nursing home at night.

And cigarettes.

Mom is exhausted, and

I like it this way because

she’s always dozing off

to lullabies with me.

I was scared to sleep alone.

Father,

may I hit my bullies back?

I asked my teachers.

My eyes were targets

before fists found them,

but only now are they too swollen

to drop tears.

Father taught me

to turn the other cheek.

I learned that father

had many lovers

before I even knew

what that word meant.

Father only played with fire,

not action figures,

or virtual games,

or puzzles,

or football,

or

his son.

I want to extinguish

the fire you play with, father—

with the fuel

your wedlock funneled in

through missing baby teeth.

I was taught

to look men like you

in the eyes,

and surrender

only when these eyes

don’t open anymore.

“Make eye contact when you speak,” my coach said.

“It’s a sign of respect.

Not just for them,

but for yourself.”

Can you face me now, father?

Open your mouth

for once.

Tell me bedtime stories about

how the seraphs stopped flying

in favor of

hugging dirt more

than their own children.

It’s because

you’re no angel—

you’re a vulture, father.

Always pecking at nests,

but your final mistake

was cracking open

the egg of a phoenix.

I’ll see to it these ashes

trade places

with the soil

that must hug you right back.

You taught me more

than you ever meant to

in the art of eruption,

how even the friction

of a box

and its match

bonding with one another

can sound like hell.

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