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The MIDI Player


above the table’s head he floats
holding high his knife and fork,
sceptre gold and lightning bolt,
carving pieces of himself

flawless portions to each given
with precision metered out
weight and wisdom finely driven
like a true nutritionist

we sip his urine, fingers splayed,
and spoon his feces onto tongues
silenced by the sound of grace
and swollen from the salt

with the fat all basted dry
his belly stuffed just like a bird
more bounty than we could provide
streams out onto our plates

sometimes i wish he’d use the knife
to slice his tallow, shortened neck
but surely he will never die
and leave us all alone

i wonder as the days conclude
with smoldering candles on a cake
if my siblings’ thoughts include:
i wish my father dead

Father © 2000 by Toy Takai
All rights reserved.