they tell me i am my father's daughter
FINCH GREENE
and isn’t it just like a pile of ash & bone
dust to claim me?
his hand locked around my ankle
even in death
thin hairs circle my teacup
and every eye on the street is blue
i am still 18 years old and he is telling me
my skin is his skin
each one of my crooked teeth wears his face
i belong to someone who is no longer here
a corpse’s property
voice box telephone for him to call
from beyond the grave—whenever
i open my mouth it sounds like
something he would say
and isn’t it just like him to color everything
with his shadow?
they tell me i am my father’s daughter
and i turn purple beneath the blow
they tell me i am my father’s daughter
and it sounds like a threat,
a warning
they tell me i am my father’s daughter
and i smile
and i cuss and gnash and spit
and it’s almost like he never left