‘You have your father's eyes’, my mother would say,
opening a chasm of consternation for me
When I think of my father's eyes I see the many times
he came home drunk, face florid with booze,
countenance sanguine with intent,
red-sore eyes ablaze with argument and
belligerence. All restraint spent. He would come home
flailing with the gratuitous cruelty
that comes with both disillusionment and
drunken failure and all my bravery would fail.
My face would just happen to be in the way of where
his fists were travelling to.
It was best to hide;
to stay out of his sight.
I don't know if I have his eyes but I know
I have his hands.
His hands were large with big strong fingers
and knuckles calloused and arthritic from
the fights he got into when he was
sozled. His hands were
dreadful,
awful,
cataclysmic weapons
that left welts on my mother's skin,
bruises that would linger,
black eyes,
smashed mouth,
and broken spirit.
During those times my mother would look at me
in her unbearable heartache and smile a small, timid half smile.
Why does half a smile always indicate
sadness?
My hands don't look like my father's hands.
By comparison, mine are soft and temperate but
I know I have my father's hands because
one night
the madness that inhabited my father took up
residence in me and I, purged of nuance,
beat him senseless, my anger burning,
turning into a rage that would not have ever been
extinguished if my mother had not thrown herself
at me to relinquish the flood of retribution
flowing
from my fists.
MDC 3/6/2020
