Poems to My Father

Your urine on the floor, father,

   and my fingertips,

     cleanses my soul

                       and sears my lips.

Your body is not yet dry, father,

    still the dead-washers clamor for their pay.

In this country, father, they will

        continue

           to gnaw at you

                              long

                                   after you are dead.

                       Necrophagia is the order of the day,

              and everybody a cannibal.

This was your mother's own grave, father.

In our rush, we accidentally step on her skull.

There is no more cotton in your mouth now,

      nor in your nostrils, or your ears.

The remnants of your soul are free to ooze out of you now,

                        just as dirt is free to pour in.

Whose skull will we step on next, father?

   Mother's?

   Mine?

Standing next to your grave, father,

   your head beneath my feet,

      I can kiss the dirt, father,

           I can finally weep.

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