a raw exploration of the complexity of family, religion, and morality in the form of an abecedarian.

ash falls onto my knee,

blackened tips

charred. my father

doesn’t speak,

ears blossoming a blood red like when he

feels the need to lie. he likes to talk about

good people but i think good

hides behind

incense and statues and muttering in the name of

just being richer. i watch the sparks

kill the air and the monks

kill the

light in ducks’ eyes.

my fingers slide atop each other, they do

not fit the lone sticks into their

own slits, so that the match trembles as i

plant them onto the pot, the orange

quivers and falls. i swear and he 

roars. and you’re not even facing right, he

says. it is southeast, child, i said

turn away! a laugh slips from my wronged lips as i rise

upwards.

voices flow

westwards, following me to the bikeshed. i see the

x-marked eyes of a dead bird like

yolks and i count back to the

zeroes of life.

Process

I typically write free-verse poetry. This poem was the result of reading an abecedarian I really loved, inspiring the challenge of fitting letters into words into poetry. As I revised, I discovered how the seeming limitations of poetry form allowed for opportunities for specific word choice I might not have otherwise utilized. Such newfound possibilities, along with my ongoing journey within religion, morality, and myself, birthed “praying in a religion i don’t believe in.”