father runs the comb slow through ***** hair
a dream in wide tooth picks / throwing one in that afro
for effect / everyone always wanted to look like
questlove.

father runs his hands on the back
a dream in crying fits / throwing out “it’s okay’s”
and / “you’ll be fine’s.” all until you were
sixteen and tired. so tired of being alive
and you told him in this stern steel
and he broke into anger
threw his hands on your arms and shook you.
don’t you know i need you alive, boy!

father places his hand on your shoulder when you
are overdosed and dying, shaking you again
telling you wake up as he drives inexplicably fast
down the highway. father is one six shooter away
from doing what you’ve done.

father is crying alone at night. mother doesn’t
come by anymore. his lovers all left.
his daughter in the hospital. an arctic frigidity
of things sliding quickly out of mortal control;
don’t you know we’re all ******?

father is eating oatmeal in the hospital.
sitting next to you in this
inexplicable unbreakable silence
where your insanity is a six shooter
and his hand is on yours / letting you know
at anytime, i could shoot.