FATHER, SON AND THE WHOLLY GHOST
We meet only
in the alleys of memory.
Our broken smiles
glitter on the ground.
Although we bear the same name,
identical scars,
you can't remember
what day I was born.
Anger spills
down the side of my face.
This is what you have taught me:
needles are as hollow as lies,
collapse more families
than veins.
Now a prisoner in death's camp,
you grow thinner every day
until I can count your T-cells
on one hand.
The phone rings,
Mama pleads
Please buy a dark suit to wear.
I tell her
I wear black
every day,
all day,
anyway.
