By Phebus Etienne

As my father sits now on the edge of a bare mattress
he drifts back to the subject of the dwelling
my mother left in Mahotier, urging me
to sell and let him profit.

I remembered crossing the ravine to the lakou.
It was news of my father the women wanted.
Slow dancing, they said, the tilt of his hips
the right pressure at the base of a Catholic girl’s spine
left her willing to commit adultery.
“Butter on his tongue,” said the sons he advised.

“Let me enjoy my daughter,” my father said
if I protested standing in line for him at immigration
or giving excuses to his supervisor when his birthday
fell on a weekday. When he no longer wanted
to mop floors, I brought him my paycheck and suspenders.
He bought bootleg videos and didn’t pay the light bill.

Question about the home of our genesis
floats like a price tag in the breeze
and he weighs my silence.
I would not imitate my father’s steps
but those of the good women he’s outlived.
They shed layers of sateen
filled his armoire with imported shirts
provided salve for his wounds
before their inevitable replacement for other shades of areola
before their quiet exodus from his insatiable taking.