Still Father Sweats

by Samuel Dickson


Father sweat the world

onto my plate, fashioned 

silverware from his 

hungry bones and fed me 

when I could not 


His blood formed thankless

into soup that boiled

on the range and

poured into his skull


I kicked father’s eyes in play

with shoes made from 

his feet and thought 

of nights when

he dripped my world

from himself; 

sweat the world onto my plate