I don’t suppose I’ll ever be done with this subject….

My Father Confuses Murder with Worship

Do what you hate, and you’ll
never lose a wink of sleep, my father,
ensconced in red leather and fog,
says and tips me a sagacious wink.

Are you sure that’s the saying?
I ask from a distance of 1,567 kilometers,
the exact length of his heart from mine.

My father borrows someone’s cranky
boss and offers him as a burnt offering,
and the smell reminds me of childhood,
which says nothing good about my home.

As sure as I am about anything, he says
and wipes blood on his checkered apron
while I carve off a piece of charred flesh.