Harsh Beginnings Breed Trying Goodbyes

Mother gave birth to me, no crib in sight. Fatherless
during your birth, you immersed mine in undefined
concern. On the verge of twenty-five, still I wonder where
you ended and why I began.

Sly charisma spotted her at In-N-Out, a topaz autumn
in 1981. Middle Eastern eyebrows arched so high, she
resembled, though glistening subtly darker, the Fawcett
you fancied on the rundown wall of your Israeli barracks.

A Toman for your thoughts, a diamond in your rough Netanya
edifice, open to condemning insults and the ill praise of the overseas
brute. Mother never knew subservience before.

Your free spirit left into the luminous lake of midnight on the twenty-
fifth of March. The clock struck eighteen years, as your dollars were found
rehabilitated and freed from caged child support—null and void, you
liberated, daughterless brute.

Your absence ticks, dead and bolted to the wall; its exhausted influx beats
compelling anger into me, no more living beneath shadows of a brute's
corpse, retaliating in remembrance of what was never had.
What was never had breeds along with time; along a deep watchtower I
remain afloat in doubted DNA.

These bitter remnants of a battered self-awareness wait for you to bandage
them no more. Laying around like the best crimson crayon worn down to
the nub, destined to see its demise; these replayed, fragile, onyx
emotions find their final resting place.

I casually breathe in existence, re-affirmed, and harshly
exhale your false stature, as it crumbles beneath
my chest.