Carpenter

About my father's upbringing. Brutal. Descriptions of physical abuse, poverty, religion.

That boy, bless his heart.

He’s a bastard son of mine.
Apple-rotten eyes—worm,
worm into mine.

He better work hard,
root-back break,
but still my boy.

In our little kitchen,
I chop romaine,
splice the onion,
top it with ranch.

Oh, he’s crying.
Bless his heart.

The whip, the belt:
our Lord’s Bible.

Flayed like a fish,
mouth open, cod.
Coward, I pity.

I catch the auburn—
innocent waves.

When it’s done,
I tend my Old Man,
so tired from the beating.

But my boy eats, with tears.
“Thanks, Mom.”
He always says I make it right.

He’s so bone-tired
because I don’t work
like a good Christian wife.

But I pay, Lord, I pay.
On my knees, scrubbing—
floorboards,
like Judas washing his feet.

I scrub my wood-lust out of me.

My son chases liquor bottles.
I don’t mind—
we all need to unwind.
Go on, Son, be a Carpenter.

Like Jesus, I see him in you.

What’s this? My daughter.
Her goofy smile, her curls—
pure goldilocks.

She grows older, sicker.

My Old Man doesn’t spare:
the whip, the belt,
our Lord’s Bible.

I can’t witness it. She’s delicate.

But I concede.
I belong to my man,
his iron fist. I stay.

Whop. Whop. Wallop.

She’s gone—burned by cancer.

It’s not my fault, I prayed.
Every day.

But my bastard boy says it’s the demon.
He saw the thunder-boom cloud of death,
the whip-struck eye.

I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I can’t say.

E-man-ci-pa-tion?
What’s that word?

Ah, the boy is gone.

I’ll miss him.
A little.