To Fight My Father

All your red eyes can scream is, “I never
want you to be like me!”
My fist is swollen, my fingers
purple and plump as sausages.
There is a goose egg growing above your eye.

For four years you have not let me forget
how you bailed me out in my time of need.
How you sold your boat, bailed me out.
Told me, “Take a different dusty road. I did.”
But your black eyes were lying then.

My right ear is still crusted with blood
where your thumbnail took a hunk.
You told me that after you shaved,
a shiner shone through beneath your left eye.
We are such a pretty pair.

The list is long of traits I inherited from you:
your love of home, your looking back,
your swarthy skin, your curly hair,
your cauldron eyes, your flashing temper.
Your high school buddies still call you “Snappy.”

You told me that my boot in your gut
woke you up once and for all.
You said you were aware I am now a man and
you must greet me as a man.
Your nickname for me was “Man-o.”

I reckon my wrist will not be sore in a week,
and your face will reform its shape.
When our injuries heal, so will our bond.
Our differences will be as distant
as the hot blood pulsing now beneath our swollen skins.