frankenstein's monster's monster's monster

my dad does a frankenstein 
in the basement with the table saw 
& a lightning storm in his pocket.
he leaves the door open a crack.
who hasn't been the victim of 
some man's ambition? i cut
the "create" out of "creativity" 
& there is just a pair of dad shoes
(you know what they look like)
on the floor like dead birds. 
he thinks that no one knows
what he does down there in his dungeon
but i have always seen  
my father. he is like a mirror.
what came first the father or 
the son? the answer: the daughter. 
on my best days i get to be the monster.
i get to share my name with
a man who loves to chase. i rise
like a bouquet of spoons. he takes me
out to the science people who say,
"that is not a daughter" to which 
he says, with pride, "of course not,
it is my monster." i am third generation. 
none of us belong here. these are
not our ears. the battlefields opened
so that we could borrow enough fingers
to make a fist. my father was made just like me
& his father too. frankenstein's monster's
monster's monster. we don't actually
remember anymore when it started.
if we have a frankenstein or if he is
just an idea we use to hold on
to one another. when the air is warm,
he opens the red double basement doors.
a halo's like gold. the sound of a saw. 
he builds boxes & stacks them
to the ceiling. each of them empty.