I

they praised me 
for carrying my father’s rage
so well
claimed red heads
have a temper 
by god 
meaning I was always 
bound to break something 

I was born with the world
betting against me

II

so I became a creek
coiled up on itself 
hard and shallow under heat
dangerous and ravenous 
after those heavy rains 
poisonous on dog days 
or by that woman 
I won’t know which 
but it never got me free
from that hollow 

III

so I became ones and zeroes 
when the internet was free 
found identity 
intertwining with the world
hunched over a keyboard 
in the back of a house 
under a yellow moon
frogs screaming out 
I wrote myself a new story

IV 
I’ll not hand them my father’s rage 
not allow them to believe 
that my three job exhaustion 
just to make the rent should 
be idolized 

I do not want my sons
to believe they’re just tools
to be worn dull

that the phrase 
I’m fine 
isn’t holy martyrdom
because a man is only 
cared for after he’s dead

they need to avoid 
my father’s tired sigh 
and that easy nothing 
with its sharp smile 
waiting
for that normal night 
when everything 
becomes too much