my father's son
By if pascoe
i am my father. born again, renewed, recycled, a review of the future past in the present, here to do what he said he would but never meant. i am my father years ago. my eyes are his eyes, i see what he saw and blinked away, and just like he did, i ignore the saline, wipe the lenses clean and escape. i can read my father’s mind. his thoughts are my reality those antique seeds that formed me, kill me, and all i despise i’m drawn to, like a moth is. i understand my father, at least i think i do, i wish i did: when he strikes out it means he hurts inside, when he grits his teeth it means he wonders why he is the way his father was; a weathered and broken statue waiting at the crossroads. Written May 8th, 2002 © on Feb 21 2002 11:46 AM PST 0 • 10
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"i am my father. born again,..."