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41 Father 1. I’m eight years old kneeling by the tub in the bathroom, the only door that locks, praying, hands folded, left thumb over right, a good Catholic girl, Dear God burn down the bar tonight before he leaves, or plant a huge oak tree in front of his car as he drives home. But here you are: oily black hair hanging over bleeding eyes and loose lips, soon the sound of flux, flux fists on skin, then boots. I hide in the closet. 2. Now you lay dying in the tribal nursing home emaciated by Lucky Strikes and booze all day at the Tomahawk Bar. You moan, my god, my god what did I do to deserve this? I slam my knitting down and want to scream forty-two years of your drunks, calling me whore and slut when I was ten, the twenty-eight stitches in mama’s head, then stop, 42 wondering should I feel guilty, the man is dying. 3. Don’t you come to my funeral because, I’ll sit up in my coffin and spit in your face. I kneel by your casket before the wake begins, watching you, frozen, cold, unmoving. 4. Crossing myself, I rise. ...

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