Patriarch

Written in another lapse of attention during my English class in the morning.

Under the floorboards

The dumbwaiter dies

Broke wooden floors and

Ceilings like skies

Onward and upward,

Oh, bluebird, do fly.

The bed of the ill, the cold and death-ridden

Your child's sins, you have failed forgiven,

Egg in her pan,

Her yolk do you choke

And vomit, and fall

And the white of the egg spatters down on the wall.

And as you lie dying

On your bed of despair

The bowl, the bowl, the veil, the bowl!

Your daughter says softly:

"Dad, he's named after you."

And your arms her pearl so delicate hold.

This babe born of new

Your body of old.

The dresser, the mirror

Spotted, cracked, and well-worn

Reflecting your skin with every last liver spot

And your fields of corn, your crucified devil

Your pipe, tobacco, a mint, the hose

Lost in the eyes sunk deep in your head

Once and for all, they're glad that you're dead.