he, my father that is,
poked the fine point of his beretta into
the crevice of my arm. the fingertips traced
each vein as a stream becomes a river.
the patterns with which we see have all but eclipsed
our craniums, particularly, his;
my father that is,
who, in moments like these, becomes the messiah,
whose own successor relished his
abandonment. so too is the muzzle,
as easily abandoned; chucked
and chalked up to misunderstanding,
misalignment.
tense, fathers dewy air — soporific delicacies; binding,
captivating outlines of flesh like porcelain dinnerware,
without a guest to feast.
he paces, surfacing each molecule.
searching for wet clairvoyant petals,
aching towards winding sprouts, of which collectively
languish in wilted succession.
he, my father that is, inscribes a beckon of atonement unto his fading tomb — our tomb —
so too eclipsed by an airy muzzle.
Jonathan Fischer is an emerging poet and short story writer from New Jersey. He currently attends Raritan Valley Community College as an English major. Jonathan writes short stories, poetry, nonfiction, and dabbles in other forms of literary experimentation.
