What do we do with our fathers,
          surrendered,
                    disfigured,
                              ambiguous in the light
                                        that opens up the body,

as we sit at an outdoor table they just left
          & collect the butts from their ashtrays?

What do we do with them?
Break them?
                    Sour them?
                                        Drown them?
What year was it
          when we were born in their arms,
when fathers were others
          and we looked for them already
                    in their smoky beds,
before the light bulbs burst over
                    our feeble hair?

I know now that we must      break them.
That yesterday’s world
                    was never so distant (we
                                                  could see it
                                        from the womb).

I’ve opened the window in my room. It should
                    be enough to throttle my fathers
among the mausoleums of leaves.

                    Here is one,
his yellowish head,
                    so well-appointed,
sinks into my blood like a precious word.

& here is another,
          scarlet in face,    haughty & shaven,
who says that all that could be done
                    has
                              been
                                        done,
          as he bends to the ground
and divides
                    into a hundred grasshoppers.

A cremation of fathers
                    makes its way through my breath
                              as I brush my teeth.

A fistful of fathers
                    leaves bruises on my face.

An anthology of fathers
                    is tightly sealed within my vocal cords.

A dustbin of fathers
                    resounds on my ribs,
                              like fingers tapping along
                                        its galvanized depths.

An ampulla of Vater of fathers
                    descends into my bowels.

An NGO of fathers
                    arrives on all my shores.

A storm of fathers
                    ruined my harvest,
                          killed my beasts,
                                  swallowed my
                                        possessions.

But we must return to our fathers.

On the other side. A little further now.

In the choked dusk of evening.

Under a tent.      In an open field.

I eat my fathers, like hosts.

I drink my fathers, filling myself to the brim.