Sticks

　　by Thomas Sayers Ellis

　　 My father was an enormous man

　　 Who believed kindness and lack of size

　　 Were nothing more than sissified

　　 Signs of weakness. Narrow-minded，

　　 His eyes were the worst kind

　　 Of jury - deliberate， distant， hard.

　　 No one could out-shout him

　　 Or make bigger fists. The few

　　 Who tried got taken for bad，

　　 Beat down， their bodies slammed.

　　 I wanted to be just like him：

　　 Big man， man of the house， king.

　　 A plagiarist， hitting the things he hit，

　　 I learned to use my hands watching him

　　 Use his， pretending to slap mother

　　 When he slapped mother.

　　 He was sick. A diabetic slept

　　 Like a silent vowel inside his well-built，

　　 Muscular， dark body. Hard as all that

　　 With similar weaknesses

　　 - I discovered writing，

　　 How words are parts of speech

　　 With beats and breaths of their own.

　　 Interjections like flams. Wham！ Bam！

　　 An heir to the rhythm

　　 And tension beneath the beatings，

　　 My first attempts were filled with noise，

　　 Wild solos， violent uncontrollable blows.

　　 The page tightened like a drum

　　 Resisting the clockwise twisting

　　 Of a handheld chrome key，

　　 The noisy banging and tuning of growth