Before we could forgive our father
he abandoned us for medicine.
I wondered if it was the drinking.
When two fingers of whiskey became
an IV, sending life through a shriveled body.
Maybe, he adopted my grandfather’s hate.
The way he created cock fights between sons,
trapping them in a ring, until one fell to the tiles.
He could have feared the audience,
the constant pressure to throw the last punch.
Sometimes, my mind tells me he never ran,
rather we pushed him back inside the ropes.