It is like trying to evict my father
out of his home, his nest in my blood.

Or the beloved who always greets me
kindly, rubs my feet and back,
gives me a bath, tells me
a little joke to make me smile.

This familiar pleasure
must be denied, and the man
turns ugly when I try to evict him,
his feet rooted in my house, his arms
once sweet seem like bars.
I still love him. Why
am I doing this? It was my
father whose life was destroyed,
not mine, his gorgeous face
turned orange and gruesome,
the liver completely cirrhotic;
I still remember the last kiss
on those vegetative lips,
the hot nothing of his breath,
ancient scotch and mucus smell,
as if something inside had already
died, the announcement of its death
escaping in his breath.

But I am more careful than he,
taking only small daily sips
of death’s liquor—fine wine, not
his scotch, only drinking
until I feel joined with something
other than myself. (Oh to never
be other!) I understand it
as black blessing entering my blood.

Now, my life will be boring. Now,
all darkness thrown out, I will be wary,
responsible, without father,
without god, uncursed, unblessed,
still breathing.


Ontario Review #62