Do not sanitize this as a calling
Do not raise me up with unclean hands
When those hands have never knocked on my door.
I feel each of his breaths slip through my hands
Becoming a living hourglass
I am angry
And I do not want you to conflate it
With a stage of grief
That would depict this as a natural course.
How dare you look at me in grief
I have grieved every day
Watching sand castles sink into the earth
While the tide climbs my neck
I check for monsters under the bed
As no one did for me
And I only find you.
I find your pats on the back
And your apologies
As great a void as your absence.
This is not a calling
This is not a gift for a dying dad
And this is not a kindness
To anybody, anybody but you.

Do not call me a martyr
Jesus never had to learn how to spell risperidone
Carbidopa levodopa, sertraline, donepezil
Glycopyrrolate, atorvastatin, allopurinol,
Mirabegron, and metoprolol.
Do not call me a martyr
I have never turned water to wine,
I have turned hallucinations into day dreams
And nightmares into fantasies
Do not call me a martyr
Do not confuse washing the feet of the disciples
To laundering ****-soaked sheets
And drool-dampened clothes
Do not call me a martyr
Jesus was never in hell
And I have sinned.

I fight with god and whoever
Keeps spitting truths at me like peanut shells
**** the doctors
And **** the first time my dad decided to drink
And especially **** the last time I decided to drink.

He did this to himself and I love him
And I’ll pay for his mistakes
But my pockets are empty

I eat **** sandwiches with stoicism
I praise the autocracy of the medical field
That told me dad is dying
And I should too.

Miracles don’t happen to people like me
And families like ours
In towns like this.

I’m dying with you
Stage 4
I’m dying with you.

I’ve got nothing to lose
Until I found I had more.

**** your age and **** my youth
**** Medicaid
And **** the truth.

My Notre Dame is burning
Let the bells ring
Of ancient fools.

My dad looks me in the eyes
And asks me how long he has to live
Is it terminal?

The Jim Beam speaks back to me
Of fathers come and go
And I lie.

I lie with my lips glued to my teeth
And nostrils flared
And with mimicked repose.

My spire collapses
And I book flights to Paris
So I don’t have to answer questions.

How can I take care of you
When Notre Dame is burning?

Daddy, someone has to put it out and I’m sorry.

Pressing the weeds that you pulled
In an ancient book like it were a bouquet
Presented with gusto and pride
As bright as the pest itself.
A cool bed and a cool temperament
Leaves me listless.
For once I’d like to eat and feel full.
I eat with my eyes the appetizer of your figure
And the breadth of your chest
But I never reach yours.
I am hungry and wanting
Beyond *** and repair
Beyond curt courtship
And cold companions.
And at some point I’m tempted to pull the rope,
Unsure if it will drop the curtain or the floor
And not knowing if you will want an encore
And filled with trepidation.
Why do we whisper?
It makes me want to cry.
A little louder now, love
Tell me what you want
If you want anything at all.

Eyes of blue
And skin of laurel
Serene indifference
Meaningless quarrel

Body still
But panic sober
A lifetime of stuck
And a lonesome October

A 911 call
And a lack of composure
An empty syringe
And a long for some closure

An absent friend
Giving a cold shoulder
An absent friend.
Wake up now, Laura

Calloused hands that give and take
Both to your detriment
That write and hold
Empty promises
I can’t tell whether
You’re grazing my cheek
Or wringing my neck.