Deep in your words, you realize you are your own father,
and son, beloved, lover, but most of all, a father.
The man, a big Broadway producer, spreads my ass.
I wonder—write—how good a lover was my father.
About this man whose kisses are fading from my mouth
I write, and make him up as if I were his father.
That these poems will not resuscitate the past
does not stop me from writing once upon a father.
The bitter truth is this: I write alone at home.
Here are no lover or beloved or son or father.
When she conceived of God, Mary warbled a hymn.
Mary let out an O, when fucked by James’s father.
Jee can write O, O, O, O, O, but they are zeros.
Realizing this, he can again begin, Our Father . . .