Father · The Art of Poetry

Father

I’ve summoned the spirit of saint Taylor Swift

And she suggested an alchemy, an airway

To the ossuary of all the bones that bothered

To dare hold me up

But that would assume I was properly fathered

Michael,

I appreciate your heritage, your wicked Irish landscape

I am grateful for your olive green eyes

And boundless sarcasm

Wow-

Could you list three things you like about me?

Or am I just another woman skittering around earth

With your DNA, helpless, you deserted me

So rapturously

No need to explain,

I know I wasn’t the easiest

But the responsibility to accept my misgivings as you see fit-

Bro,

I won’t have any of it

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