My father, I think,
wanted to be a deliberate man.
On days when the boil in my blood near overflows
I imagine what the sensation must feel like.
These ill-humors do no one any good.
Do I blame the rain? Should I pray for the sun?
Would Heaven part for the prayers
of yet another more sinner?
Ghosts of a stern religious past
cast my lot in with theirs –
resigned, at last, to darkness.
At least there is no rain.
I think of my father.
I hope for the sun.
The floor is dirty
and dishes to be done
and obligations to fulfill
between now and moonrise
when all our dead fathers rattle their chains
and bade us revenge
this murder most foul.