altar.

by Seán M. Dalpiaz

My Father was a writer.
He whispered when’s into the wind
   wondering
              himself
      when the wind would push him

back
   from the liquid nights
      and numbers
               mixing up

Did he mean to
  end up spent

a body full of blood
      and resent?
        His writing clinging
to my
                 strings of silent.
I only knew my father
      when I wrote.

When I set up the altar.

An altar bought at Pergament

of wood
and plastic
corrections.

…and then the risen
        stretch out btwn
                anti-
     and LOVE.
Room 4 everyone.