TRAGIC Poem: the melancholy god, by Georgia Cyriax

I.
the days of mourning for my
father are fast approaching. i’ve felt
it ever since my grandpa passed:
a sink, in the room you fear most,
clogged with spiky beard hair followed
by the punch of rotten eggs and bleach

II.
bile–it’s black, pouring out my
mouth through the lungs. like
everything else, I get this patrilineal urge.
the only cure: saffron and olive oil

III.
love is twitching legs tickling
the back of your throat. legacy is
useless after you outlive the earth
and sky. birthright, chased
with thunderbolts. will you ever again feel
safe outside your father’s stomach?

IV.
how to live up to your name?
deaf man’s villa, the
slow rotting, the soft exile, do you
feel the build up of black paint on your palms?

V.
who, to castrate, dangled by a rope from a tree
betwn the earth, see, and ski? but me?
have u only one blessing, father?