Wretched
I lied to my father
that morning
because the truth
was wretched.
Our first conversation
in a thousand days
and I started
with a plea
for help
to keep me
out of jail.
I needed him
to not see me
in that hour
just like
during all the years
already buried,
so I could
hold my humiliation
close
like a holy vestment.
I lied
through the
acid in my throat
into a
pair of eyes
that didn’t care
one way or
the other.
I had looked into
those eyes
when he said goodbye
in my childhood,
leaving for a long trip
he said,
that turned out
to be
across town
to plant his flag
in another woman.
I had waited
by my window
for his return,
but Jezebel
kept her legs coiled
around his mid-section
convulsing in rhythm
to his indifference.
To those eyes
I was the
family dog
that needed put out of
my misery,
this wasn’t
a man’s son,
I stood before him
a coward,
losing at everything
because I couldn’t
forgive him,
and now I couldn’t
tell the truth
because I had made
him important,
more meaningful
than the sun and the moon
and the gravity
that held me
in his orbit.
I don’t know
what he saw
in those jungles
in ’44,
never confided in me
his thoughts
on anything,
but on dark nights
when the roads
are quiet
and I feel him
in my blood
we search together
for the sacristy
with the secret
to make us whole.
I have to
find it soon
because I’m so tired.
I lied to my father
because the truth
wouldn’t make
a difference
between us.
He saw me
that day
the same as
any other,
a whisper
from his past,
a breeze
that crossed his skin
when the alcohol
was low
in his veins
and the whore
slept peacefully
next to him,
his own eyes
kept open
by his beating heart.