My grandfather built a house
and then burned it down.
He let fire peel back the roof
to expose his anger to the sky,
and when the rain came down,
he watched his children shiver.

When god sleeps, he dreams
of cupping men in the palms of his hands,
and then he tightens his fingers
and crushes them. When he wakes up
he finds reality unsatisfying.
He's tasted blood. Kindness will no longer do.

Once, I asked my ancestors how
to purge a demon from my flesh.
I asked how they thought I should be punished,
and in the dirt on their graves, I found a knife.

Behind my grandfather's back,
his children used their fingers to draw
curses in the ashes of their childhoods.
My father drew a picture of himself
swallowing the sun and becoming a god.
Around him, the universe stilled to take notice.

When god is awake, he feigns an interest in triviality,
but our small failures are nothing to him.
Sometimes, he sees a tragedy about to happen,
and the smell of blood makes him smile.

A thousand scars later, I understood the futility of my task.
I told myself that the demon wasn't real.
My ancestors agreed, but being dead,
their grasp on reality was as suspect as mine.
We huddled together, mourning our own stupidity.

My grandfather died in a new house,
choking on his own lungs,
his broken body flanked by oxygen tanks.
Did his last breath smell like smoke?
Did it burn like fire?

That sound you hear is a god laughing.

I am not a god, but I have decided to be the one who laughs last.

02/13/2017

Posted on 02/13/2017
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair