To My Father

If I should die before I wake,

my soul is up for grabs--

that Green Room of my childhood

prepared me for nothing. 

A  prayer leads me through

dream hallways like  throats,

dark and self-lubricating.  The voice

before the swallow, the belly grumbles

while we pray, the need never seems

to leave.  God bless the daddy

of all-white children, those he terrorized

and the one he did not. 

Daddy, bless the children with

all-white children.  His love unbent

like a coat-hanger snaking

through dark sensibility, snagging

anything foreign.  If I should die

before this yearning breaks, a flood

around my feet....God bless the mommy and the daughter,

the great-grandchildren, cinnamon and small;

fragile prayer of something better than great-grandpa’s

hate for the fragment of his population, dear daddy-god,

that he won’t reclaim.  Bless God, I will not wait.