My father
in the garage at 1 a.m.
smoking cigars
with Spanish music
on the radio
my father
nervous in restaurants
and department stores
his disappointment with the world
shining in his eyes
and a rage that has no name
always just beneath the surface
my father’s silence like a hand grenade
my father’s fist
through the kitchen window
my father fighting a war inside his head
fifty years after the fact
my father
the son of a drunken preacher
married to a catholic woman
hating god
my father at the dinner table
telling stories
no one understood
my father singing sad songs
in a strange language
pulling weeds from the yard
my father looking as uncomfortable
in photographs as he did in life
my father’s face in my mirror
my father’s blood in my veins
my father’s voice in my throat
my father’s name
is my name
I carry it like a rose
like a cross
my father’s death
a seed inside me
blooming
into the strangest of flowers.