My father is ham,
sliced on the floor. Pulsating.
He is dying.
Without eyes,
without feet,
hands,
liver,
or lungs.
I watch his respiration’s as
they slip, so slowly,
away.
Now is the time for tears,
but where could they be??
He already died in a dream.
When I was young, I watched
his casket get planted in
the ground.
My grandmother was headsick!!
Father was not a seed.
He was a musician,
and a bum with a harmonica.
A bastard!
He watched his father die, also.
His father was not ham.
He was on a rope,
dangling
like a pinata for a child’s birthday.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 