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| Father above the table’s head he floats holding high his knife and fork, sceptre gold and lightning bolt, carving pieces of himself flawless portions to each given with precision metered out weight and wisdom finely driven like a true nutritionist we sip his urine, fingers splayed, and spoon his feces onto tongues silenced by the sound of grace and swollen from the salt with the fat all basted dry his belly stuffed just like a bird more bounty than we could provide streams out onto our plates sometimes i wish he’d use the knife to slice his tallow, shortened neck but surely he will never die and leave us all alone i wonder as the days conclude with smoldering candles on a cake if my siblings’ thoughts include: i wish my father dead |