Act I
By Simon Shieh
Pine-Sol
on the bathroom tiles
an offering to the wrong god.
Sometimes, I do not see him
for days.
When he returns
a small bird
dead
in the toilet means
he is restless.
I tiptoe unplug the vacuum
hush the children tearing
at each other’s bare chests.
When I am old enough
he tells me what the mind can overcome
and I believe every word.
He talks about loyalty, he
talks about bone growing on top of bone
how to convince my body
that it’s worth it.
Often I grow sleepy and
stare at his hair the gel like blood
caked on black fur.
His people plant seeds
between their teeth
speak in the cadence of rain.
Though they are solemn
he reminds them of laughter
when he blesses their children
they offer him their children
and when their faith wavers
in his absence
he lays his naked back perfectly flat
on a bed of nails before them and tries
not to move—
his favorite
lie.
Source: Poetry (December 2021)