My father, whom I loved, was murdered in his home while he slept
by an intruder who was also my father, whom I hated.
[My father is protagonist and antagonist in this story.]
In the train station the month before, he spoke with disconcerting nonchalance
about the sexiness of young women in men’s suits, of the way light
on yellow leaves could bind his breath, and we were out of time.
Before I was born, my father, whom I loved, was slaughtered on a highway in Ohio
as he rode on a bicycle piloted by a reckless bastard [also my father, hated].
Without reflective gear, he was invisible to the car.
[The bicycle is weapon and witness in this story, and now she lives in a garage
under a canvas drape, a neurotic beauty, her wheels a firm pair of Penthouse tits,
and she thinks That was meant to be lover’s pact, you reckless bastard.]
My father [loved] was drowned in an inkwell by a psychopath [father, hated].
He couldn’t stop writing, coughed out black strands of commentary onto stationery
and greeting cards. This sputum saturated even envelopes. He choked the post box.
I read his self-portrait: cramped fingers pinching and pulling
synonyms and similes from his skull, like strands of hair, streaking them across
the paper in brusque, broad curves. [I am bystander and accomplice in this story.]