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.