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jesus<br />
cindy keong<br />
You would argue that until you were seven<br />
you thought your name was Jesus. <br />
That Dad picked over your transgressions<br />
like a crow pecks at roadkill. Every false move<br />
recorded in sighs of, Oh Jesus!<br />
Trouble attached itself to you<br />
like a cattle tick. At six, other boys <br />
were climbing trees, learning how to ride<br />
bikes without training wheels. <br />
You were smoking cigarettes<br />
inventing excuses for singed fingers<br />
and the absence of eyebrows, the truth<br />
buried deep in blue denim pockets.<br />
Your boyish smirk still appears when we<br />
trade memories like baseball cards: <br />
you recall convincing Mum that crayfish<br />
caught in our local creek were called cunts.<br />
The delight savoured not in the tasting<br />
but in Mum’s proud exaltation when served<br />
at the dining room table.<br />
These days Dad watches you play<br />
with your son, raising him high<br />
on outstretched arms, catching him as he free-falls.<br />
Dad no longer calls you Jesus, but comments on<br />
how your son looks at you like a God. s<br />
21
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