In My Black Pit Stomach

 

 I finally know what the feeling is.

 

It’s like my father being stabbed,

scissors jutting from his chest like a door knob,

a red coat rack that does not stop

throbbing, twenty years later

and I am too afraid to touch him,

 

to tell him that I want to take the scissors out,

I want to let him rest in his forgiveness,

tell him that his god is my god,

that I am too old to make his mistakes.

I just don’t have the stomach for it,

literally I cannot hold my liquor

even on those days when I need it

like he needed it

like a pair of scissors in the chest.

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