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