how i was fathered
BY K-MING CHANG
How gently he injured
the earth, gardened us
from blood-soft
loam, taught us tender
meant teeth-ready. Taught us
to hunt birds, break necks
like bread. Taught us winged
meant wounded & bled
meant quiet
hands holding
your body open.
We bled four times a year
when he came home
& brought gifts
from Taiwan: glazed dates,
osmanthus
cakes. He’d watch us
eat, our crumb
-coated lips & sugar
-sanded tongues.
Good eat? he’d ask,
& when we said yes
he’d ask did you earn it?
& then we hid
our sticky hands
in shame.
Later, blood puddled
our palms & we were careful
not to drip
a path back to our bodies.
who earned it? My father comes
from a butcher family, eats only
what he can kill.
who earned it?
You did. You did. You did.
At night, I dream
of god hanging up
the constellations
on meathooks, of death
in some natural
disaster, our house
flooding, my brother & I
floating to the ceiling. But
there is no disaster
more natural than a man-made one.
We fatten for his fist, eat cake
after cake, the sweet
slurring our faces.
With full mouths, we beg
for more, we take & he gives
it to us good. He feeds
& we grow
into the slaughter
we were born for.
