but a parody of himself. I’m beating
the absolute crap out of my dad, using
fists, sticks, whatever comes to hand.
My fingernails show him who’s man
as they grope for his eyeballs. He doesn’t
fight back, accepts each raining blow like milk
on his tongue. The umbilical cord is round
his neck as he tries to speak, each gasping
breath grasping for something I can’t quite
make out. But nor do I care to: the time is
now. The reckoning. My mum smiles,
feints, steps into the ring.
