Today, your beloved father starts a journey
that begins after the end of another.
Or so the pastor says.
A journey to God.
Your father’s first steps leave a dent,six-foot-deep,
on your red compound the gravediggers’ skins blend into.
A dent that faxes over a piece of itself
into that part of your brain
whose strings make memories marionettes,
and becomes one with the contours, one with your reality.
Your mother is wailing, drowning in a well of brackish self-pity
dug deeper by score tongues of “God Knows Why”.
Those slimy spades of vermilion that carry chunks of earth
from your field of weakness you hide inside your head
each time you open the portal to glance at the way mucus abandon nostrils.
You see her eyes bob in salt-water pain.
A lighthouse in a sea of liquid emotions.
A 17-year-long salvation from her womanliness.
You were taught to draw strength from that appendage, that graces the crux of your hips.
The word, tears do not rhyme with Man.
So you kill the quiver kissing your lips and eyelids
and bury it under a clenched jaw.
Your emotions are prisoners in that Alcatraz you call a manly chest.
And parole is a dream
where toxic masculinity is a reality.
And they will be an anchor in your breasts and hold you down,
like the red earth on your father’s coffin.
Tomorrow, your mother would end a journey to begin another.
Your chest would be ample, saggy bossoms
weighed with the screams of killed emotions.
You would think of your journey
and the one that begins after it ends.
Two vehicles would hold your gaze from the glossy Formica side table;
A bowl for your cries.
The other, a knife.
But today though, you are in chains.