Lena double-baggies Delmar’s
last-poured bowl of Cheerios
stashed away untouched left dry
on the top shelf of the pantry
for god knows why.
His ruddy face had landed kerplop in them
as he had his final stroke.
She mixes them in with the bastard’s ashes
bone splinters teeth and all
staples the bag to the wooden cross
he’d set up in the backyard
to use for the days
when he couldn’t get to Mass.
She takes a rolling pin to the works
and treats the whole lot like thug booty
a trade for those lippy lavender lusts
he gurgled up and out of the promises
he’d made against her best advice
not to teach Christopher and Jeremy
that those righteous s.o.b.’s at the church
were “Father”— Delmar’s own dust right now
knowing gawddam good-and-well-enough
the reign of fucked-up Father Timothy
draining the sweet sap from his own pecker
(how many decades ago?)
(how many times had he bawled about it?)
and the frail old queen swishing around
sprinkling his incense cassock starched
like an old maid’s funeral attire
lying in wait for his sons
cause he remembered what a fat cock Delmar sported.
Run them scammers fresh out of proud
Lena shouts as she slams the bag once more
sending the ashes and Cheerio dust flying.
Fuck their chilly heart-raping souls
and now Delmar’s cross comes crashing down!
Bankrupt bastards are after your Oldsmobile
your precious Hummel collection
ten cents on every dollar
the risen cream on every pint of milk
and your twelve year-old’s pussy
Father? Father of what?
Pray? Prey with an E that’s what.
God’s mouth to a snake!
Her father was a Methodist
and she didn’t even call him Father.
Called him Pop if she called him anything
if and when he came home.
And she learned she could pray to something bigger
than herself when she white-elbowed her way
through two-tit cancer then
came out of it never calling anybody or anything Father
much less some Irish bastard who collects
innocent boys and rides their little fannies off
on low and mighty clouds.
Well Delmar was just as much to blame as
that fucking Timothy.
Same with all those Catholic Mommys and Daddys who
kowtow around making special cookies
publicly casting off big bucks spouting pucker lip tributes
instructing their vulnerable little ones
that those suck-up supplicants are sacred Fathers and
can be/should be trusted.
And if she can ever get her hands on the dust created
and stirred up by the Mommys and the Daddys
Kathy and Bob next door and the Dodds and the Flanders
the Doughertys and the Romanos
who misguide their kids just so plus all the
Fathers’ Timothy and Benjamin and Jonathan
and Paul and Peter who play out the charade
“Cheerio Goons” she cries she’s got plenty of
big black baggies and her rolling pin’s got
plenty of spunk left in it and if that’s not enough
there are cheapo cargo ships departing this
country every day desperate for slave labor in the galleys.
Maybe Rome will welcome them