When Father Died

It’s really strange __ really __ what __ self __ is __ being __ God __

The kitchen is rich with the aroma of refried beans, aracheras, flour tortillas, coffee, and a hundred brothers and sisters speaking English and Spanish, and Spanish and English. Soon, language becomes a prayer tongue burning in my skull. I drift down the hall, nodding this way and that way like a fucking bobblehead as flames dance above my head. I disappear into the bathroom and shut the door. I’m alone __ finally.

I unzip my pants and relieve myself, not caring if I miss or hit center or if the ripple is contained in the strangely undulating commode. I stare at a crack in the wall -- the fissure runs toward the ceiling. Is it cracking, I wonder. I know I fixed it. The smell of blood mixed with urine assaults my nose and then journeys down my gullet. My gaze slowly lowers, and the white, pristine bowl is dark red. The black dove begins to flap, and tremors rattle my body. “Dad,” my voice cracks, “how can you love a father who lets his servant end like this? How can you? Get out spirit,” I am defiant. “Get out!” It surges from my heart into my belly, grips my loins, twists my testicles, then suddenly bursts forth -- rose petals splatter and become swirling wine ___