It begins like this, with an ambush:
a sickle sliced through friendly flesh,
nerves and muscles, a tight knot;
the shock of something irreversible.
Your father’s cock,
as limp and halting as a comma,
now punctuates your own undoing,
leading your children on a path
worn smooth by hate, heavy with meaning.
So naturally you will eat them,
tearing their skin with yellowed teeth,
sucking the fat from nascent bones,
all to delay your own diminishing.
You confused me for a rock, your oldest son
spared only by your own negligence,
a hollow churning in your gut
was mistaken for the pangs of the inevitable.
But as your body now forgets itself,
mine remembers your betrayal:
aut neca aut necare.
It ends like this, with another ambush:
a mumbled apology, a sickle,
and in my heart: a shameful hate
as sharp as steel, as hard as rocks.