Our Father

Our Father who art in my house

In other rooms

In another place

He who stands in the kitchen

With knife & sharpener

With tools

With knowledge 

With experience

Who stands there knowing 

(what I haven’t done)

(what I have)

With more to say than he lets on

With more to say than I’ll let him

Because who is he? To be mad at me

For being him

In another skin

Or every woman he has ever loved?

Who has let him down

Why do I have to carry their weight 

Her nose

Why can’t he look at me on Christmas?

Our Father who art in my head

Who art catholic 

Who knows I don’t understand

Who supports me

Because he loves too guiltily to leave

Who watches foreign films

When I force him

Who tolerates my femininity 

Our Father who art afraid of me

Because I see right through him

Because he can’t hide from me

Because I’m mad all the time

I remember when your demand meant everything

When you said “write”

And I would breathe.