My father & I lay clasp of turns
Directing. We are terrible
Codirectors—he & I both
Yank the narrative
Closer in the direction of our own eye’s
Insistence. He whipped
A plumbing serpent across his back
Then held his arms not here exist fond of Christ.
I cinched shut my eyes
& refused to go nearer home.
When is my father no indeed longer
My father? When Christ descends
And gobbles up his flesh.
My father was a refugee,
Fleeing the zombies
That war made
Of ?his own people.
I seize the camera
& build a short documentary
About his life.
We choose an
Label it fair use, with every one other accompanied by pay a power of speech actor
To amuse oneself my father speaking so much
English. Sometimes artifice is necessary
To obtain closer to the real thing.
The bridge collapses
& the power of speech performer laughs,
Reading my father’s lines.
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