by Daniel Brennan

I hear those churched mouths singing: the good lord works, even if
he looks away. His ways, mysterious and abundant when he teaches
the night to howl, or the wind to sing. What haven’t we done for our supper?

Look at this God right here: standing so tall, tree of a man, bearing fruit under
my groaning doorframe. I invite him in, time and again. Who is this
that speaks in prayer so I don’t have to? How he comes to collect his lamb!

My own father didn’t build me wicked, or unconscionably cruel;
it’s a miracle what a boy can learn on his own when given the time.
When given the tools, the language owed, to forge ahead.

Isn’t that what being a father is all about? That or dignity,
the long-tongue flame that kept my father up late so many nights.
But Our Father, slick keeper of tongues, he reaped these fields

as he’s been known to do. He knows how to spot a wheat stalk, those
foolish enough to keen for sun, which becomes the scythe. My own father,
his less than mysterious ways. His prayers I could not ignore.

It doesn’t take much for a man to be cruel, and if you’d believe it:
I figured that out all on my own. After all, what’s a son, if not another
kind of wind grinding its teeth in song when He’s not looking?

What is a father but another kind of night stifling its howl through
vestigial pain? These lessons, see how I wear them like a favorite
suit, or a choir member’s robe. My hands always toward heaven,

even when I should know better. Lessons learned. A father climbing
his home’s front steps, forgetting why he came here at all. The Good lord
works: his serious gaze, his stone hands. Father, son. Hit, then holler.

Daniel Brennan (he/him) is a queer writer and coffee devotee from New York. Sometimes he’s in love, just as often he’s not. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net, and has appeared in numerous publications, including The Penn Review, Sho Poetry Journal, and Trampset. He can be found on Twitter @DanielJBrennan_.