pâques

easter sunday
believer, small piece missing from where the wall cracked in winter. stones swell in the damp heat, water swells in the cruel freeze. no desert city dries me out. wet brunch, wet dreams, wet smile and gleaming wet teeth. made of water, made of salt. my proud father drives to work early on the east coast, with the radio on loud. as a young man he took out loans to buy a bicycle in iowa and weathered the cold winters by stacking all his clothes and even a kitchen chair on his bed, to keep from freezing like all the water in the pipes. he waited for his tax returns to take mother to dinner, he rubs his mother's feet in front of jeopardy, he smiles with dimples. he is the a thick vein that runs from appendix to shoulder, where sometimes i imagine the emotions of his life rattle through me. cramp his happiness, herniate his pain, curl around the place where we've never been attached, close my eyes and remember places i don't know. steal his curls and wear them like a crown. child, tomb of the father; child legacy of the father; child, restraint; child, cry; translation of the silent generation, translation of the screaming generation, child spit from the womb child unfolded in grotesque and exquisite multiplication from exhausted sperm; child you must be love, you're filthy.