my father at twelve stole from god
or at least that’s what Brother Boscoe said
to my granddad long before he was my granddad
but just before he beat my father with the will
of which only farmers are capable the will that tills
acres without help from tractors or beasts
of burden the will that makes sweet
peppers swell green to red come draught
come flood the will that gets exercised upon and by
sons who come later who taste the blood
and sweat in their fathers’ mouths from before
their fathers were fathers but
no measure of will can protect a son
of the land from the truth told
by a man of the clothe
Brother Boscoe had god
who had my granddad fill my father’s mouth with blood
just as my father had earlier filled his own with the sword
tailed hillary he took from the brother the one
he was promised for having scrubbed
clean dozens of fish tanks
and rawed his hands
without pay though without
is what sons of the land are most
accustomed to my father cushioned
the fish upon his tongue gathered spit
between his cheeks pulled close against his teeth
and walked home the equator’s sun
a switch stinging his bare back the only witness
to how the fish beat in his mouth like something sacred how
upon delivery it moved his heart
like water
on will
By Trisha Rezende