sins of the father

setting the stage in a bright
white bathroom, fluorescents 
buzzing buzzing buzzing,
glass crunches under worn boots

mirror glass as confetti,
bloodied knuckles attached to
shaking hands that grip the
edges of the cold sink

say in a voice that sounds 
more and more like my fathers,
‘boy, you’re closer to the things
they kill than the things they keep’

had always planned to be a 
pallbearer at my own funeral anyway, 
already made sure i wouldn’t be buried
as my fathers daughter

so i go to church,
but the door handles burn into
the palms of my hands and my
knees creak to think of kneeling

what do i have to repent for anyway?
the bloody knuckles and last nights booze
still on my breath don’t make me a bad man,
they don’t make me my father

i do not seek absolution,
no penance or hail mary’s
are going to save this soul of mine

i am as a wild flower pushing through
cracked sidewalk, spindly sapling emerging
from the bark of a felled tree,
lived through the man my father was
to remake myself in my own image

and just because i picked out a coffin
in a wood that made me think of
how dark his eyes always were
when he looked at me doesn’t
mean i have to buy the damn thing