My Father's Eyes

‘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