This morning I opened your email, and found
the body of your daughter, her face erased
by invisible ink. I saw on paper, faint lines
that redrew her features into caricature—
the sphinx, the grandmaster, the bitch.
Cartoons invented to live in my closet,
collecting paraphrases with a hammer,
storing the closed captions of a mute.
Jars of stunted-self languish there still,
in the half light. Stacked fat slices
of summer pear. Peeled, cleft and
without mouths, they kiss up
against the glass. Inanimate, but
breathing. Listen – they call out,
to no longer glisten in syrup
of burgeoning blood. Call out
to end the obligatory bob of an orb,
forever seeking a diminished pit.
You see Father,
I came to count the shards.
Shatter the shelves of your empty chest,
breathless and blinded.
Pick up what’s left of each inhuman word,
paste remnants of jagged letters
to my own bruised ribs
sculpt every defect into
splintered divine ambition
to live earth bound
a masterpiece of deliverance.
I your Burger’s daughter
—look
watch my teeth tear flesh from stone.
Photo by Atlas Green on Unsplash
