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Cannibal, 1985

Christopher Brisson

When my father belted me across the face
before flying to a science fiction convention,
I thought it oddly glamorous, perhaps a little
scrap of cinema, the way his diamond ring
caught the top lip and blood spouted freely
from the snag. I’ll give him one thing:
I was already fifteen, so it could only seem
a somewhat belated first for that
loose temper, those black beetle brows.
I yelled “Asshole,” and the weather was perfect-
late plangent May; left the house in livid flourish,
easy with his departure for five days. I would nurse
my indignation like grist that afternoon, the rent lip,
the spattered t-shirt, wonder whether I’d answer
lightly when questioned at school or marina,
“OhÉit’s just my mad father,” then gather up the public
shock from my nonchalance like cookie, moist
and delicious, chew it beneath a sky of fat blue
reinforcement. Exultant, rubbing facts like
sooty lucre: scheme, vision, profit: oo
ha swollen lip could well feed some future
fiction, some sincere story, the poignant
memoir. Alas, it’s 1997, and you’re right
here, exiting one of my briefer poems.



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