Mother gave birth to me, no crib
in sight. Fatherless you, during your birth, and I,
both immersed in doubt. On the verge of twenty-
five, still I wonder where you ended, and
why I began.
Your sly charisma spotted her at In-N-Out,
a tart, cranberry autumn in 1981.
Her Middle Eastern eyebrows arched
so high, she resembled, though subtly darker
and glistening, the Fawcett you fancied on
the crumbling wall of your Israeli barracks.
(You knew you wished she were yours.)
A Toman for your thoughts, a diamond
in your rough Netanya edifice, open to condemning
insults and the ill praise of the overseas brute.
Mother never knew subservience,
until you.
Your free spirit left into the luminous lake
of midnight on March 25, 2002.
Your dollars freed from caged child support—null
and void, you liberated, daughterless brute you.
Simply a sperm donor; poor in possessing any
fervor for love, positively absorbed by
lack of innate fatherly accomplishments.
Your absence ticks, dead and bolted
to the wall; its exhausted influx beats compelling
anger into me, no more living beneath shadows
of a brute's corpse, retaliating in remembrance of what
was never had. What was never had, breeds
along with time; along a deep watchtower I
remain, buoyant in scraps of DNA shallowness.
Shallow respirations that lie unconditionally, producing wounds
of rare healing in abundance.
These bitter remnants of a battered self-awareness wait
for you to bandage them no more. Laying around like the best
crimson crayon, worn down to the nub yet
never destined to see its demise; these replayed,
fragile, onyx emotions find their final stop
at a hault.
I casually breathe in existence,
re-affirmed and harshly exhale your false
stature, as it crumbles beneath
my chest.
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