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When my father bound me, I submitted,
closed my eyes to the lifted knife in his fist.
Even now, the cords still hold my wrists,
rough ropes of love. My chest is bare,
my heart lies open. He loves his god more
than me. I open my eyes, watch my father
raise his fist against a bright and bitter
sky, no angel there to stay his hand.
From Prodigal: Variations (Lethe Press, 2011). Copyright © 2011 by Ed Madden. Used with the permission of the poet.
His priestly gestures, consecrating the broken eggs,
hands moving over the stove, slabs of meat
skittering in grease, drop biscuits big as a cat’s
head, threaded with cheese.
Him, making the fountain, making lantana, acanthus,
making bloom and ripple, song, making the birds.
for Ray
He wanted the God of the flannelgraph, God of the box of crayons, God of grape kool-aid and stale cookies, God of the paper tabernacle, God of the quiz bowl, God of the gold star, God of Aunt Maxine and Uncle Doug.
Rutherford Elementary
When Mark Nicholson spilled his milk on me—a slosh
across my lap—the teacher let me tip the rest
on him, then slipped me in some spare jeans in her closet,
and that was that. From then on, teacher’s pet.