Roth

roth

your father died, too long
ago for anyone to remember
he decided that this time,
this time,
things would be different

he never haunted, only
reminded
and your seed, those things you carry
infertile from your father's issue
you were five, holding your

hands out, hoping for a slap
reminding you that you were alive
I begin to think that

death is a disease in a house.

the despair covers up the
chinks in the tile
until one day death becomes
the cancer you wished for it is remembered
reminded,

never haunted.