I could not have recognized it,
in my teens. Who pays for
the father's sins?
The son who became a father,
a man turned into fist.
Familiar splinter, the language
of bone, each hack recalls
a similiar detachment. Look back,
the bruises are the same.
Who is this child whose heart
was infinite winter, darkness,
even from the womb?
We can say "the heart has memory"
We can try to be re-born. There are
many reasons to kiss our fathers
despite our inheritance.