cream cheese moon

when i climbed out of my father's mouth
i had a butterknife in my teeth.
once he hit me with a broom
until i became a wild turkey.
i tell my lover, "he is a good father"
by which i mean
"i cannot stop loving him."
in another poem i romanticize him.
i promise the reader my childhood
was smooth as a fresh carousel apple. 
my first job was cleaning up his voice.
hands & knees. my brother often turned
into a feather duster. i would hold him
& say, "there is no more dust."
in the attic i found a gun once.
i pointed it at the window
& pictured the pane bursting. there are memories
that become so core to ourselves 
they are saved in stained glass. 
a fracturing. where i love him
& where i hate him. it becomes cliche
to think too much about where
you are from. the first death of the author
is a departure from origin.
someone asks me, "who inspired your work?"
i want to say, "the man i talked to for weeks
on the porch of his sweet mildew house."
instead i say "frank o'hara" because
it's also true & i add
"ca conrad" because it's even more true. 
my father once threw a marble at my face
& somehow it struck me right 
in the eye. living is like making swiss cheese.
a birth of holes or absences
or portals. it depends on the day 
how i choose to name them.