Confession of a Hungry Son

Father, before I begin forgivemy mouth, for it had let your nameburn to ash:the week fell on my mother’sshoulders like a wall. She tookcheap pills, boughtfrom an apothecary.She lay in her bed like a grave,drew her blanketover herself like cobwebsacross a ceiling. The afternooncrawled in our starving stomachs.My fingers combedand combed my mother’s secrets.When nothing was found,we carved a holeinside her ears with our voices;but what difference would a pinmake if inserted into the skinof the dead? His white shoe steppedinto the room like the sun—his hands,filled with our dreams:father, we soldyou because of the hunger you leftfor us to watch over; my sistersand I sold you for three plates of riceand chickens.Baa mi, I’m sorry—your cubslived in a shippen for ten years.