My Father and I are no longer friends on Facebook
James Bowden
1.
I, James Christopher Kapono Bowden, was born on March 28th, 2001 to two expectant parents.
Two excited parents. I was to be a Jennifer, like my miscarried forebear. I am male, ergo James.
2.
Someone must give. This is a very old story.
There is no other version of this story.
3.
My father wonders what happened. Turns over all these pictures, me, small, smiling.
No father has even been so holy.
4.
I give, give, give until I can no longer see a self. What child
has ever been so holy?
5.
No child has ever been so self-centered. In the car one morning, my father tells me to look up
the words “belligerent” and “willful”. I do that evening.
The next morning, I’m back out on the sidewalk halfway to school,
nose kissing concrete in giving. To give is to need.
6.
We used to watch The Lion King over and over. He, of course,
is Mufasa. These days, he tells me I am Scar.
That’s okay, he laughs. One of your brothers will be Simba.
7.
I can no longer cry. I try, and sputter.
I realize that I’ve never been upset in my father’s presence without him raising me fifteenfold.
People I love leave. Rachel notes that I didn’t tell my parents about her until I had to.
I break.
It takes some time, but emotions come to be more than some abstract notion.
I relearn how to sob. I break again.
8.
What good is giving when it’s expected? Define taking.
My father shoves a large number in front of me. I pay.
I ask about the state of our family finances. I ask
how urgent. I ask
if I need to get a job for my brothers’ tuition, for my parents’ retirement, medical bills.
I offer to drop self. I ask
for numbers. I’ll need to know this soon anyway, you not around forever and all.
God forbid you touch my will–you think I’d trust you to do things the way I want them done?
To ask, to give.
9.
All I feel anymore: fear of abandonment. To ease, submit. Is an option
really an option when one cannot choose it? I, like a recalcitrant puppy.
I want for nothing but resolution. Once more, I offer myself. I give.
10.
I am moved out, but
wish my father would see how he turns all he touches to hurt, my
mother brother brother. I try reason. I try emotion. He tells me to
inscribe my grievances upon his gravestone, just leave him alone.
I unfriended you on Facebook so you wouldn’t see my posts and have something
negative to say about them. Did you even notice? Did you? No father has ever been
so
small.
11.
I–
My arms are tired. I fend back the world in all its coldness.
Who will stand behind me?
I, the last line.
The second part draws from Richard Silken, and the holy lines from Chelsea Dingman’s Memento Mori. More list poems, yay!